


The Tangled Web Job

by ScoutLover, Telaryn



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telaryn/pseuds/Telaryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The threat issued by CIA Director Conrad at the end of The Experimental Job proves to be anything but idle. The team is blackmailed into working for the CIA to help gain control of the major nuclear pipeline into Iran. To accomplish this and keep their loved ones safe, they are forced to work with an old enemy towards a common goal.</p><p>What the CIA fails to realize is that catching the Leverage team and holding them are usually two different things.</p><p>What Nate fails to realize is that the price for squirming free of the government's grasp is likely to be higher than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> From Scout Lover - Huge gushy thanks to for coming up with this story idea and asking me to co-write. I seriously could not have had a better writing partner, or one more understanding of my Damien-Eliot obsession. ;) And thanks also to for the gorgeous art and music that has taken over my iPhone.
> 
> From Telaryn - It's all Jesco0307's fault.
> 
> Okay, I honestly don't remember who first proposed the idea of and me co-writing a fic together, but [here](http://telaryn.livejournal.com/819022.html?thread=2664782#t2664782) is the comment thread that ultimately gave birth to the tale you're about to read.
> 
> I'm still blaming Jesco0307.
> 
> Getting to play in this particular sandbox with the woman who *owns* this particular type of Leverage fic has been such an amazing experience. Everything I lacked to do a story of this size and complexity justice she has in spades. We complemented each other perfectly - every time I got something back from her, it drove me to produce even better stuff.
> 
> And then came Alinaandalion. Go [here](http://alinaandalion.livejournal.com/47414.html) to see the beautiful artwork she did, and if you were drawn here because of a certain video - that bit of brilliance is all on her too.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/tangledwebcover.jpg.html)

PROLOGUE

“Nana?”

Caroline Bushnell wiped hastily at her eyes before looking up from the papers she’d been reading. “What is it, honey?” she asked, trying not to snap at the small figure in the kitchen doorway. _It’s not his fault._

“Reisha’s throwing up again,” the small boy said. He was clutching a tattered pale-blue blanket; Caroline was always tempted to call him Linus, even though six year old Jeffrey had no idea something as idyllic as Peanuts even existed. “She woke up the baby.”

Startled, Caroline held her breath and listened. She’d been so wrapped up in the letter from DCFS that she’d missed the building chaos upstairs. Sure enough, now that she was paying attention, she could hear her youngest wailing in his crib. “Go wake up Mary,” she said, getting to her feet. “Tell her to come make Makeen a bottle and do what she can to get him settled. I’ll see to Reisha.”

The six year old Afghani girl who’d recently joined their little family was lying in bed, covered in vomit. Her skin was flushed, and her large, dark eyes were glassy with fever. “What’s wrong, baby?” Caroline murmured, laying the back of her hand on the child’s forehead. _102 or 103,_ she thought. “Keitha honey,” she said, glancing at the room’s other occupant, “fetch me the thermometer from the bathroom, will you?”

“She smells bad,” the eight year old announced gravely.

Caroline ducked her head for a moment, praying for patience. “Do what I tell you, baby,” she said finally. “And bring me a damp washcloth, so we can start cleaning up this mess.”

“Sorry, Nana,” the girl whimpered as Caroline helped her sit up. Her English was still limited, but she was learning quickly. “Sorry.”

“Shhh,” Caroline soothed. “It’s okay, Reisha. Not your fault.” Working steadily, she got the girl cleaned up, bundled into a fresh nightgown and blanket and deposited in the room’s rocking chair with a thermometer under her tongue. “Don’t play with it,” she cautioned, before turning back to the task of stripping down the bed.

“No, Keitha!” she snapped, before the other girl could grab at the stained sheets. “Go wash your hands, then bringing me a clean set from the hallway.” She watched the girl trot off to do as she was told and saw twelve year old Mary in the doorway, bouncing the five month old Makeen on her hip.

“Nana?” the girl asked, “what was that letter on the kitchen table? They’re not taking us away, are they?”

The question caused an immediate ripple of distress among the children – even Reisha, who Caroline would have bet didn’t entirely understand what had been said, but who was sensitive enough to understand a stressful situation when she was around one. “I don’t want to leave!” Keitha wailed, tears filling her large, dark eyes. “Nana, don’t make me go! I’ll be good!”

Once upon a time Caroline would have been able to take immediate charge of the situation. She would have comforted the crying children with one hand and cleaned up the mess with the other – all the while plotting how she was going to make the government drones at DCF back off and leave her family alone.

Now, all she wanted to do was sink to the floor and cry herself. _God, what am I going to do? How am I going to keep them from taking my babies?_


	2. I Hope This Was Worth It, Mr. Ford

“Run it again.”

General Lawrence Flores watched closely as security footage of the previous night’s activities were replayed on the monitor in front of him. He knew his aides – trusted men all – were having trouble believing the truth of their own eyes, but he didn’t have that luxury. While he’d been sleeping, secure in the knowledge that his country was safe from the bandits and terrorists that had held her hostage for so long, a squad of his own men had walked Damien Moreau out of the Tombs.

 _That’s what really hurts,_ he thought, watching Moreau glance up at the camera again. The traitors had pulled the exact maneuver Eliot and his men had used to free Flores from the very same prison.

“What do we know, General?”

Flores looked up into the worried eyes of President Michael Vittori. The young man had donned a suit, but his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was only loosely knotted around his neck. “We’ve closed off all known routes out of the country,” he reported, getting respectfully to his feet. “My best men are covering the airports and all of the known checkpoints.”

Vittori’s eyes ticked past him to the monitor – the recording was paused on the moment where Damien Moreau had smirked up at the camera in triumph. “General, how did this happen?”

The truth was heavy in the air. “All the exalted beliefs and high ideals in the world can’t change some people’s basic nature,” Flores said, feeling his heart sink. “Mr. President, I wish I could tell you these men were acting on some sort of agenda that was in conflict with our own, but they were paid. This was a monetary transaction, pure and simple.”

“Not so simple,” Vittori said, and once again Flores was struck by how much wisdom and depth there was to the man. He had a better grasp of the situation than any of them ordinarily would have given him credit for. “What are the odds he intends to retaliate against us?”

Flores thought of Eliot Spencer and his friends – the work they’d done, the sacrifices they’d made so that a tiny country nobody had ever given a damn about had a chance at a real future. “Truthfully, I do not think we are Moreau’s highest priority right now, Mr. President,” he said at last.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


He was going to hear about not telling the rest of them. Nate cupped his hands around his coffee and tried not to imagine Eliot was watching him from the shadows. Even though he had a perfectly rational reason for excluding his hitter from this meeting, Nate had to admit that there was a rush in being here by himself, completely exposed.

“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Ford.”

Nate looked up into the face of a man he’d hoped to never see again. _”I hope this has all been worth it, Mr. Ford.”_

_”Worth what?”_

_”Attracting my attention.”_

“Your employer’s reputation makes it hard to refuse,” he said finally. Nate glanced pointedly at their surroundings. “This seems a little … out in the open, though.”

Smiling coldly, Conrad took the seat opposite him. “You’d feel better in a deserted alley somewhere?”

Nate chuckled softly. “Honestly? I’d feel on more familiar ground.” Judging his coffee cool enough, he took a drink. “This is fine though. What can I do for you, Mr. Conrad?” He flinched slightly, suddenly hearing Eliot screaming a warning in his head. _It’s not like I’m making a deal with the Devil himself,_ he thought, trying to quiet his nerves and dismiss the noise in his skull.

Conrad laced his fingers together on the table. “I need you to finish something you and your team started two years ago,” he said. “A mess you left behind that’s causing my people a great deal of aggravation.”

 _Two years._ It wasn’t hard to see what Conrad _wasn’t_ saying. “Damien Moreau,” Nate said, taking another careful sip of his coffee. “I imagine that did cause quite an uproar at the time.”

“You cut the head off a big enough snake,” Conrad said, “it can do a lot of damage in its death throes. When your people took Damien Moreau out of play, you destabilized numerous underworld pipelines. Including …” He held up a hand to forestall Nate’s retort, “ … significant routes through the Middle East. Places like Iraq, Iran, Pakistan …”

The way he chose to emphasize the words left little doubt as to exactly what sort of pipelines Conrad was referring to. Visions of warlords and terrorists fighting over nuclear materials swirled in his mind, tugging quite insistently at his guilt. _You didn’t think about the long-term consequences._ Impulse, instinct and doing whatever he had to in order to bring the team through in relatively one piece. Anything more, and it was like the days when he was profiling Eliot. Once the job left his comfort zone, it automatically became somebody else’s problem.

“You’re giving us a great deal more credit than we deserve,” Nate said finally. “Believe me when I say that we got lucky in bringing down Moreau. The idea that we can affect things on an international scale like you’re talking about is patently ridiculous.”

Conrad was silent for a long moment. “We’ve spent a great deal of time and energy discussing you and your people, Mr. Ford. Some of the top minds in the intelligence community have dissected the work you’ve done in the past five years, and frankly there’s only one conclusion we can draw.” He paused, and it was all Nate could do not to shudder at the implications of what he was saying.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

The skin on the back of Nate’s neck prickled; he was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that even though he had complied with Conrad’s request that he come to the meeting alone, there was no reason to believe the CIA operative had extended him the same courtesy. “We look a lot better on paper than we do in real life,” he said, swallowing against a throat gone suddenly dry. “Men like Eliot Spencer and Alec Hardison don’t react well to traditional authority.” _And don’t even get me started on Parker,_ he thought. On a good day Nate knew he was lucky when he was able to get Parker to follow a plan.

“Dip into your slush funds,” he went on, draining his coffee. “Trust me – you can find people better suited to what you need done than us if you just look hard enough.”

Conrad’s eyes followed him as he got to his feet. “Your country needs you, Mr. Ford.”

Nate smiled bitterly. “No. You really don’t.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Eliot swallowed hard as he stared down at the text message on his phone. Sunlight poured in warm waves through the windows of his kitchen, but he felt only a heavy chill as he read the words again. They were simple, terse, and heralded nothing good.

_We need to talk. Now._

The text was from Lawrence Flores.

Dread started a slow crawl through his stomach. He and Flores had stayed in semi-regular contact since San Lorenzo, the man keeping him informed on the progress and outcome of Damien’s … _Moreau’s_ … various trials or simply updating him on San Lorenzo’s latest step toward maturity as a country. Flores seemed to understand what it meant to him to know that, for once, his involvement in “regime change” had truly been for the good and was actually yielding positive results. But he knew with a sick certainty that _this_ wouldn’t be one of those conversations. He sighed heavily and bowed his head, slipping his fingers under his glasses to rub at his eyes as a headache suddenly blossomed behind them.

_Shit._

For a moment he was badly tempted just to delete the message and try to forget he’d ever gotten it. Moreau wasn’t his problem any longer; whatever trouble the bastard was brewing now belonged to San Lorenzo. Except that he didn’t really believe that. Some part of him would always bear a share of Damien’s guilt, and a share of responsibility for his crimes. So no matter how badly he _didn’t_ want to hear whatever Flores had to say, he knew he didn’t really have a choice. And Flores, damn him, knew it, too.

_Fuck._

He lifted his head and shook his hair out of his face. Fine. He went to the refrigerator and got himself a beer, then made his way to his kitchen table and sat down, reaching for his computer and pulling it to him. He hesitated for a moment, caught somewhere between fear and resignation, then swore again and opened it, launching Skype and selecting Flores from his contacts.

The man answered immediately; clearly he’d been waiting.

“Spencer.”

Even seated, Eliot stiffened into a military brace without thinking, sitting up straight and lifting his chin. Then his brain kicked in and he relaxed slightly, sitting back in his chair and locking his gaze on Flores. The man looked exhausted, his dark eyes dull and shadowed, his face deeply lined. His hair and shirt were rumpled, sleeves rolled up messily over his forearms, his customary tie nowhere in evidence.

Anxiety twisted another knot in Eliot’s gut. “General,” he greeted, unable to stop the familiar address. He knew Flores wasn’t a general any more, but he’d never be able to think of him as anything else.

Flores nodded slightly. “Thank you for responding so quickly,” he said quietly. “I am sorry for disturbing you like this, but I fear I have … difficult news.”

Eliot stiffened again, clenching his hands into tight fists in his lap. Damn, sometimes he hated being right.

“Moreau is gone.”

Eliot blinked and stared rather stupidly at Flores, not quite understanding his words. “Gone?” he rasped dazedly, wondering if the man had contacted him to tell him of Damien’s death. And how, exactly, was he supposed to feel about that? “As in … _dead_?”

“I wish,” Flores said in a low, harsh voice, his bitterness obvious. He had always argued fiercely for Damien’s execution, but President Vittori had argued just as adamantly against it, declaring that he would not have his people greeting their new future with blood on their hands. It was one of the few true points of contention between the two men.

Just now, though, that did nothing to help Eliot understand what was going on here and now. If Damien wasn’t dead, then how could he be– ?

“No,” he gasped as understanding, sudden and terrible, hit him. “No!”

“I am truly sorry,” Flores breathed softly, sadly. “I was certain–”

“ _No!_ ” Eliot shouted furiously, lunging to his feet and slamming his hands onto the table, his chair falling to the floor behind him. “You’re telling me he _escaped_? How the hell could you let that happen? I warned you! Goddamn it, _I warned you!_ ” He struck the table again, then turned away sharply before he took his rage out on his computer.

 _Damien had escaped._ It was his worst nightmare come true. Somehow, the bastard had found a way out of the Tombs and was now free–

Free to seek his revenge. On _them_.

All his breath left him in a hard, painful rush, and his world went horribly cold and dark. Damien’s face, arrogant and cruel, flashed before his eyes, driving a spike of nausea straight through him. Damien knew them, knew who they were and what they’d done to him.

And Damien Moreau never forgot.

He turned slowly back to the computer, to the man staring out at him from the screen. “ _How?_ ” he snarled, his rage turning dangerously cold within him. “How the fuck could you let this happen? I _warned_ you–”

“I know,” Flores sighed, looking and sounding as if he hadn’t slept in days. _Years._ “And we took every precaution you suggested and several that did not occur to you. We used only the most highly trained men to guard him and rotated them frequently so no one would be under his influence for too long. We made certain none were in financial difficulty or suffering any family or personal problems so that he would find no weakness to exploit. I selected every man myself.”

“Then what the hell happened?” Eliot ground out.

Flores exhaled heavily and bowed his head, shaking it slowly. “We are still working on that,” he said. “But from what we have learned so far, there was … a rather large sum of money involved.” He winced deeply, as if the words caused him physical pain. “Someone bought a handful of my men, who then got Moreau out the same way you and your team got me out– These men betrayed me, betrayed their _country_ , for _money_ ,” he spat bitterly.

“And where are they now?” Eliot asked hoarsely, too caught up in his fear for his team just now to sympathize with Flores.

The man shrugged and shook his head. “We … do not know,” he said thickly, the words seeming almost to choke him. “We shut down all known access points into and out of the country as soon as we discovered he was gone, but to no avail. We have learned there was a helicopter waiting at an old deserted airstrip in the mountains, and that was almost certainly how he was taken out of the country. Along with the men who took him,” he added pointedly.

Eliot just stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. Damien had paid off the guards and arranged for a helicopter. Just as _he_ had warned–

_Just as he had warned._

He frowned and moved closer to the computer, staring in confusion at Flores. “How?” he asked tersely. “Where did he get the money? Every law enforcement agency in the world’s been going through his books, freezing his assets, confiscating anything that has his name on it. Hell, _Hardison’s_ been through his accounts, and as far as we can tell the bastard didn’t have five dollars to his name. How the fuck did he finance an escape?” A sudden thought hit him. “Ribera–”

“It wasn’t Ribera,” Flores said hastily. “Believe me, we … looked into that.” Something in the man’s tone sent a chill through Eliot, and he decided he didn’t want to know any details. “He had nothing to do with this. In fact,” Flores smiled grimly, “he is as terrified as anyone of the prospect of Moreau being free after all the evidence he has given against the man.”

Eliot sighed and ran a hand through his hair. If not Ribera, then who? Chapman was dead, he’d seen to that himself. And most of Damien’s more competent lieutenants were rotting in various prisons around the world. The organization he – _they_ – had so carefully built was in ruins, its carcass picked over until nothing but bones remained. He thought briefly of Juliana, Damien’s wife, but immediately discounted her. She’d always greatly enjoyed the status and wealth that came with being Mrs. Damien Moreau, but there was no way in hell she’d risk a prison sentence for him. She was too busy living it up as the infamously wronged wife on the French Riviera.

“Then how?” he asked tiredly. “Damien doesn’t have any money or any organization. He’s been under constant surveillance since we handed him to you. How could he put something like this together?”

“There is your answer,” Flores answered, a fine, cold edge of anger seeping into his voice. “He didn’t do it. From what we’ve been able to piece together, this was an outside operation, and the men who pulled it off were highly trained professionals. None of this originated in San Lorenzo, or with Moreau.” He lifted his head and his dark eyes flashed with a barely-leashed fury. “This wasn’t really an escape at all,” he said in a low, hard voice. “This was an _extraction._ ”

Eliot could only stare at the computer screen in sick horror.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


They talked for hours, going over every detail, sifting through what little evidence Flores and his forces had been able to uncover. Flores showed him the security footage of the “escape,” and he watched it until he thought his eyes would bleed, shuddering repeatedly at the smirk Damien threw at the cameras. Eventually President Vittori joined them, though he certainly had more urgent responsibilities just now. He looked every bit as worn and haggard as Flores, and was heartbreakingly sincere in his apologies to Eliot.

“Your people gave us the gift of our freedom,” he said, voice and eyes brimming with sorrow and shame. “You placed a great trust in our ability to bring this man to justice, and we have failed. Worse, I fear our failure has placed your team in grave danger. On behalf of San Lorenzo, I apologize.”

Eliot understood then why Flores served him so devotedly. Sophie had been right about Vittori all along.

And then Eliot had to smile when the man asked about “Rebecca.”

By the time he ended the call they were all hoarse, wrung out and no nearer an answer than when they’d started. Or … not any kind of answer that Eliot cared to speak out loud. Yet. But so much of what he’d seen and heard was so familiar. The tactics used to extract Moreau were ones he’d used himself countless times. And not just as a retrieval specialist. He’d seen that same suspicion in Flores’ eyes.

Eliot closed his computer and sat back in his chair, staring into nothing. Some part of him knew the sun was still shining, but he could see only shadows. Every one of them bore Damien’s face, and they murmured to him in the smooth, seductive voice he knew so well.

He’d thought he was free, thought he’d finally found a way both to lay his past to rest and make amends for it. He’d been so wrong. He should’ve killed Damien before they’d left San Lorenzo; it would’ve been so easy. He’d considered it, and still wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t done it. Except that, somehow, he’d let these people – Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Parker – convince him that that Eliot Spencer was gone.

_You’re not that man any more._

He’d never loved Sophie more than he had at that moment, when she’d looked up at him with such knowing and such _faith_ , and said those words. _Believed_ those words. Believed in _him_.

_You’re not that man any more._

Except that he’d proven her wrong in a warehouse in DC. And proven Nate right.

_He might have to be, to get us in._

Or to save their lives. To protect these people, he’d be whatever he damned well had to be, do whatever he damned well had to do.

He _was_ that man. He’d always _be_ that man. And Damien, God damn him, knew it. That smirk hadn’t just been for Flores. The bastard had known Flores would call him, would share that footage with him, and had used that knowledge to taunt him. Challenge him. _I do know you._

Eliot swallowed hard and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the shadows mocking him from the kitchen. From the past.

He had to talk to Nate. And this time he was going to kill Damien Moreau – anyone else’s moral qualms be damned.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


The timing wasn’t a coincidence. _How could it be?_ Nate leaned against the guard rail, and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wind off the harbor play across his face. Men like Conrad weren’t used to taking ‘no’ for an answer. Nate hadn’t expected his casual brush-off would be the end of things, but he’d needed time to figure out his next move.

They couldn’t afford to have an organization like the CIA as an enemy.

A part of him had half-expected Conrad to go to Eliot next, with his “flag and country” pitch, so Nate wasn’t surprised when Eliot texted him insisting on a meet. _Waterfront Park, south end of the trail._ He’d agreed immediately. Away from the others, they would be able to talk freely – Nate had some hard questions that needed the kind of answers only Eliot was going to be able to give him. _We’re only going to get one shot at this,_ he thought, opening his eyes as he sensed his hitter’s approach.

“You look like you’ve had the same kind of morning I’ve had,” he said. Eliot looked tense and drawn, his eyes shadowed with deep worry.

“Doubt it,” he countered, leaning against the guardrail himself so that his back was to the water. “General Flores contacted me a few hours ago. Last night ‘persons unknown,’” his forefingers sketched the obligatory air quotes, “extracted Damien Moreau from his cell in the Tombs and took him out of San Lorenzo.”

 _Moreau … gone …_ Missing pieces of the puzzle began slamming together in Nate’s head with considerable force. _Not a coincidence at all, then._ He didn’t have a complete picture – _not yet_ – but things were a great deal more clear than they’d been a few hours ago.

Eliot chuckled ruefully, shaking his head. “And you’re not surprised. Wonderful.” 

Nate blew out a quiet breath, turning his gaze back out across the water. “The CIA just tried to recruit me.” He paused, considering the statement. “Us. The team. Director Conrad would ‘like our help,’” now it was his turn to sketch the air quotes. “in stabilizing several of Moreau’s trade routes through the Middle East.”

“Nuclear materials,” Eliot said, his brain immediately making the leap. “Nate–”

“I know,” Nate said, shifting until their eyes met again. “But if the CIA has taken Moreau, then they’ve already got a plan in place.” He smiled slightly, seeing an almost imperceptible flash of _something_ in Eliot’s eyes. “And they’ve likely already accounted for the possibility of assassination,” he finished – letting the younger man know without stating it outright that his preferred course of action was off the table.

Silence fell between the two men; Nate knew that Eliot was sorting and analyzing the data in his own way, using his own unique experiences to see if he could find a way through the problem. “Conrad said they want the team?” he asked finally. “All of us?”

Nate nodded. “That’s why this doesn’t make sense,” he admitted. “There’s something I’m missing – and it’s a critical something.”

“If all they were looking to do was control Da– Moreau,” Eliot said, “they’d target you.”

“Eliot, I can’t control Damien Moreau,” Nate said, letting Eliot’s verbal slip pass unremarked. His worry about what being thrust back into close proximity with Moreau would do to his hitter was an entirely different problem – one he couldn’t share with anyone else.

“I know that,” Eliot said, waving the protest away. “From the Company’s point of view though, it looks like you can – like you’re one of the only people on the planet who could. Put me with you …” His voice trailed off, but Nate was already ahead of him.

“We need to talk to the others.” He saw Eliot flinch as soon as he said the words, but Nate felt absolutely sure about his decision. “I can’t have everybody haring off in different directions on this. Besides – you know the fastest way to get Hardison and Parker in the thick of something is to try and hide it from them.”

“Nate, we can’t run a game on the CIA.”

Nate snorted softly. “Believe it or not, Eliot, I’m not looking to run a game on anybody. Right now my preferred course of action is to drop out of sight for as long as it takes this to blow over.” He sighed. “But if we do that, I want to make damn sure they can’t come after us with anything. I know where my weaknesses are.” He locked eyes with his hitter again. “I’ve got a pretty good idea where yours are. Do you want to even hazard a guess as to the others? Sophie?”

When Eliot didn’t answer, Nate shook his head. “No stupid heroics this time. We’re only going to get one shot at this – we’ve got to make it count.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Nate made the call, gathering the others and setting Hardison loose on the situation before he and Eliot had even left the park. “Sweep for everything,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Imagine you’re in a world where there’s no such thing as too paranoid.”

 _Chew on that,_ he thought, pulling out of the parking lot with Eliot’s truck on his tail. Hardison would be vibrating from the implications of his orders, but Alec Hardison was also the only member of the team Nate _knew_ had actively been recruited by the CIA before today. It was a foregone conclusion that Conrad’s people already had them under surveillance, but Nate also knew that if anyone alive could counter what they’d done, it was Hardison. _And if he can’t, it’s not like they’re not expecting us to try and figure a way out of this._

His mind was spinning, going over everything he knew and trying to piece it together with everything he was starting to suspect. The idea of trying to outmaneuver the CIA was daunting enough on its own, but inserting Damien Moreau into the mix threw his relationship with Eliot into question. In the privacy of his own head, Nate could admit to himself that his trust in Eliot wasn’t entirely what it should be. He felt disloyal even thinking it, but Moreau was an issue between them they’d never managed to entirely resolve.

 _Everybody’s always pushing you to talk about your feelings,_ he thought, parking his car in its usual stall behind McRory’s. Ironic that this was turning out to be one of those situations where he really should have paid attention.

“Lucy, you got some ’splainin to do,” was Hardison’s greeting when he and Eliot finally entered the loft. The hacker and Sophie were at the desk, staring at the wall of monitors in horror. Parker had retreated halfway up the spiral staircase to Nate’s bedroom, hugging her knees to her chest. Their eyes met and Nate ordered her down with a glance.

Eliot was already taking his usual seat when Nate turned to face the other two. “How’s your paranoia?” he asked, looking at Hardison.

The hacker’s eyes held none of his usual sardonic humor. “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.”

“Nate, what is going on?” Sophie asked, her eyes flashing with a mixture of confusion and fear. Giving into a sudden impulse Nate reached across the desk and covered her hand with his own.

“Run it,” he said, looking at Hardison. “Everything you’ve got – Eliot and I’ll fill in the gaps where we can.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Sophie managed to keep from pulling free of Nate’s touch, but it took effort. _What have you done?_ She knew it was an unfair reaction on her part – particularly since she saw no hint of the crusader in Nate’s eyes as they talked over everything that had happened – but the CIA was one of those organizations that just automatically kicked her “flight” instinct into overdrive.

 _Add Damien Moreau into the mix …_ She agreed with Nate and Eliot’s assessment that the CIA’s plan likely involved them working _with_ Moreau in some capacity, and even the idea of that made her skin crawl.

“Why doesn’t Eliot just kill Moreau?” Parker asked during a break in the discussion. Sophie’s first instinct was to reprimand Parker for the insensitive statement, but even she realized Eliot had probably gotten there well before any of them.

“They’re going to have figured that as Eliot’s likely response to the situation,” Nate said. “I’m not sure neutralizing Moreau gets the CIA off our backs.”

“It’s not off the table, though,” Eliot said gruffly. Sophie flinched at the matter-of-fact statement; Nate’s hand automatically tightened on hers.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Sophie saw an unguarded flash of how much Nate was relying on her to stand by him. _I can’t do this without you._ He might as well have said the words out loud, for how clearly they were written in his expression.

Exhaling softly, she nodded and turned her hand in his so that they were clasping each other instead of him pinning her down. “It’s not the priority right now,” Nate said, directing his remark to the others.

“What is the priority then?” Hardison asked. “I mean, aside from running away like our pants are on fire?” He raised his remote. “Nate, the amount of shit they’ve laid on you since we shut down psycho frat boy is ungodly. It’s all fast strikes too – no long term surveillance until first thing this morning.”

The screens shifted again. Sophie didn’t entirely understand everything Hardison was showing him, but she and the hacker had talked before Nate and Eliot had arrived. “They want us to think they’ve been watching us for months,” she said. “Instill the idea that there’s nothing Hardison can do to protect us …”

“When it’s the in and out work that plays hell with my protections,” Hardison grumbled. “Now that I know their strategy …”

“It’s too late,” Nate said, but with no real hint of heat or rebuke in the statement. “The big show was because they knew I’d have you looking for whatever was out there to find after I left Conrad. By now they’ve got all the intel they need to bring us in line.”

Parker whimpered at that, half-rising out of her seat. Sophie reached for her automatically, but Eliot was faster – whispering to her until Parker finally relaxed again. Hardison was watching them – clearly worried about the thief – but he flinched suddenly as the harsh buzz of a vibrating smart phone split the air.

Clearly confused, Hardison slid his phone free and checked the screen. “I … um … I gotta take this,” he stammered. Before any of them could react, he was on his feet and headed for the hallway.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	3. We're From The Government...We're Here to Help You

“Hey Nana,” Hardison said. He was unable to keep the note of hesitation out of his voice as he reached the relative privacy of the hallway. _Too many distractions._ “What’s going on – is everything all right?”

_We called her "Nana," but she was our foster mom. She, uh... she -- she would cuss like a sailor. The old girl would tan your ass just as soon as look at you. But -- but she fed us, she bathed us, she put a roof over our head. And, oh, she would raise hell if you so much as looked at us crooked._

Memory of a conversation he’d had with Parker years earlier came back to Hardison as he listened to the old woman on the other end of the line. Caroline Bushnell was the closest thing he’d ever had to a mother, and Hardison gave her full marks for him growing up a relatively decent human being, even if he hadn’t been able to stay entirely on the right side of the law.

He slumped against the wall, listening intently as Nana’s story went on. He’d endured a lot of terrifying things in the nearly five years he’d worked with Nate; none of it, with the possible exception of being buried alive, scared him as badly as the raw desperation he could hear in her voice.

“You told me you do that hacking thing to help people now, right?” The question broke him out of his reverie; pushing himself off the wall, Hardison began to pace.

“You don’t worry about a thing, Nana,” he promised fiercely. “I’m going to look into this and do whatever it takes to make it go away. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Alec …”

He could hear the hesitation in her voice now, and leapt ahead to spare her the embarrassment of asking. “As soon as I hang up with you, I’m gonna find the best in the country at dealing with this kind of stuff. Whoever he is, you work with him until I can make this go away, you hear me?” He braced himself for one of her famous lectures on breaking the law, but there was only silence on the other end of the line.

The door to Nate’s apartment opened. Hardison tensed, but relaxed immediately when he saw Parker slip through the opening. He was about to say something to her as an aside when Nana spoke again in his ear.

“They’re good kids, Alec. Just like you and Tracy. All they need is a chance.”

Hardison swallowed. “I know, Nana. You keep doing what you do best. I’m gonna fix this – I swear.” They exchanged good byes.

When she was gone, Hardison felt himself begin to shake. White hot anger – the likes of which he rarely felt – flared through his mind. _Patriot Act. They’re investigating her under the fucking Patriot Act._ Nana’s focus was understandably on the notice from the State threatening to take custody of her current crop of foster children; it was the idea that she could be charged with aiding terrorists simply because she had taken in two orphaned Afghani children that terrified Hardison. _Burden of proof isn’t what it used to be,_ he thought, tightening his grip on his phone until he felt actual pain in his hand.

“What’s happened?”

He met Parker’s gaze, and what he saw in her eyes steadied him a bit. “I … um …” He closed his eyes, willing himself back under control, and started again. “That was how the CIA’s gonna get me to play nice and go along with their plan.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Sophie sat back in her chair and stared at the monitors, with all their evidence of Conrad’s surveillance on them, her mind still reeling. They had certainly used such measures against marks in the past, but never to this extent. If all this truly had been done in so short a time– Obviously the agency deserved its formidable reputation.

And now all that was aimed at _them_.

She shuddered and absently folded her arms tightly against her chest. “They’re … very thorough, aren’t they?” she breathed.

Eliot set a glass of wine down before her and stood close, lending his warmth and solidness to chase away her chill. _Ever the protector,_ she mused.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, his gaze, too, riveted to the screen. “This is just a taste, Conrad’s little way of makin’ a point. They’ve got teams that can completely sweep a house in about an hour, go through everything you own, clone your computer hard drive, read your mail, plant their little bugs and cameras and get out without leaving anything out of place. They’ll know everything about you, be able to track your every movement, and you’ll never even know they were there.”

She shivered again, suddenly tempted to go home and scour through her belongings. Eliot’s hand shifted to her back, rubbing small, slow circles, and she relaxed into his touch, not entirely reassured but grateful for his effort. “All this just to get our attention,” she murmured. “But why? This isn’t our game. We’ve stolen a lot of things over the years, but never nuclear materials!”

“Yes, well, Conrad seems determined to change our game,” Nate said, leaning against the desk and frowning thoughtfully. “I can understand Moreau; Conrad needs him as his inside man. This is – was – Moreau’s operation; he built it, he knows all the players, where all the bodies are buried–”

“’Course he does,” Eliot growled. “He’s the one who buried ’em. Or,” he winced slightly, “had someone do it for him.”

Sophie glanced up at him in concern. Their first run at Moreau had opened so many old wounds in him, forced him so deeply back into the past he’d thought he’d left behind, that she’d watched this most unshakable of men unravel completely before them in a sunlit park. He’d finally managed to knit himself back together – helped in large part by their triumph over Moreau – but now she could see the cracks opening again. And she couldn’t help wondering exactly what kind of man had this much power over Eliot Spencer.

“Everything fell apart when we took down Moreau,” Nate went on. “Apparently no one who wanted him gone thought through the repercussions–”

“Imagine that,” Eliot snarked.

Nate’s lips twitched in a wry grin as he continued. “Nature abhors a vacuum. With Moreau suddenly gone and his organization in ruins, chaos erupted. Or even more chaos than usually exists in the Middle East. It’s a free for all, with a lot of very dangerous people playing for potentially catastrophic stakes. Moreau’s dangerous too, but at least he has the benefit of not being crazy and of being motivated by greed rather than ideology. The CIA is counting on him to restore order.”

“Better the devil you know,” Sophie murmured.

“Exactly,” Nate said. “Moreau likes order, and he’s very good at establishing it. He profits from order.” He shrugged. “And the government is apparently willing to overlook his other … shortcomings … as long as he gives them some influence in that part of his operation. Moreau’s job will be to take back and control that pipeline. Conrad wants _us_ to control Moreau.”

Eliot’s snort plainly expressed his opinion on that, and Sophie had to share it. “Control Moreau?” she repeated in sharp disbelief. “Bloody hell, what is it with these people? First the Italian, now Conrad– This is _their_ job, this is what _they_ do! Why the hell can’t they do it and just leave us out of it? This isn’t a game on some arrogant CEO or used car dealer! This is _Damien Moreau_! Who now has a rather deep and personal grudge against us!”

“I know, I know. Sophie,” Nate raised his hands to silence her rant, “I know.” He reached out and took her hands in his, holding tightly to them. “Believe me, I am not in any hurry to go up against Moreau again,” he assured her, gazing intently into her eyes. “We got lucky the last time; I am well aware of that. We got him because he underestimated us. He won’t make that mistake again–”

“He never does,” Eliot added quietly. “That’s one of his strengths. Damien _never_ makes the same mistake twice. And he’s had two years to learn everything he can about us.”

“He’s been in prison,” Sophie protested. “How–”

“He’s had access to lawyers,” Nate reminded her. “President Vittori wanted to be certain he got the full benefits of the justice system he denied to so many others. And the rules of discovery can be … very broad.”

“Shoulda just taken the bastard out back and put a bullet in his brain,” Eliot muttered. “If Vittori didn’t want his people’s hands dirtied, he coulda just called me.”

“You’re not killing Moreau,” Nate said flatly, and Sophie wondered how many times he’d said it already, how many times he’d say it again before they were done. “And we’re not playing Conrad’s game. I will not expose this team, _us_ , to this kind of danger. You’re right,” he said with a nod at Sophie, “this isn’t who we are, and it’s not what we do. I’ll talk to Conrad again, buy us some time. Meanwhile, Hardison will be working on a way for us to disappear–”

“No Hardison won’t,” came a low, tight voice from just inside the doorway.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


They all turned at Hardison’s words, and alarms began shrieking in Eliot’s brain. Fear and rage glittered in the younger man’s eyes, and Eliot could almost feel the tension radiating from him. Somewhere in his mind he heard the sound of a door slamming shut.

Nate released Sophie’s hands and straightened. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly, calmly, though Eliot could see the same alarm in his eyes.

Hardison stalked forward, Parker flitting behind him like a shadow, and tossed his phone onto the desk. His whole body trembled from the force of his rage. “That was Nana on the phone,” he spat through clenched teeth. “They’re threatenin’ to take her kids away from her.”

Sophie gasped sharply and Eliot muttered a filthy curse. He’d heard Hardison talk about his Nana countless times over the years and knew exactly what she meant to the hacker. He also had to admire a woman who devoted her entire life to the care and raising of children nobody else in the world seemed to give a damn about for no more reason than that they needed her.

“Who?” Nate asked tersely.

Hardison stared at him through burning eyes, his jaws working and his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively at his sides as he fought a visible battle to contain his rage. “The state,” he finally ground out. “But she’s under investigation by the feds. Homeland Security. They’re usin’ the fuckin’ Patriot Act against her!” he snarled.

Nate exhaled heavily and bowed his head, closing his eyes and running a hand over them. Eliot swore again and turned away, then began to pace with a tightly coiled fury, clearly able to see Conrad’s hand in this.

 _I know where my weaknesses are._ Nate’s voice echoed again in his mind. _Do you even want to hazard a guess as to the others?_

Conrad hadn’t needed to guess. He’d also just risen to number two on Eliot’s to-kill list.

“I don’t understand,” Sophie said at last, confusion evident in her voice. “She takes in foster children. What could they possibly investigate?”

“Two of her newest kids are from Afghanistan,” Hardison said in a tight, clipped voice. “Apparently, their village was trying to build a school – for boys _and_ girls.” Eliot groaned and bowed his head, knowing only too well what was coming. “Taliban didn’t like that, attacked the village. The kids’ families were among those killed.”

“Dear God,” Sophie breathed.

Hardison shuddered and swallowed audibly; Parker crept closer still and slowly inserted her hand into his.

“How’d she get the children?” Nate asked, his head still bowed.

Hardison clung to Parker’s hand, obviously using her to steady himself. “Our soldiers found them and the other survivors after the battle, got ’em to some aid workers. Turned out they didn’t have any other relatives, so the aid workers got in touch with an organization that specializes in getting kids like them out of Afghanistan and into homes in other countries. Nana’s church is part of a network here that takes in refugees. They contacted her, she had an opening.” A faint smile broke through his anger and ghosted about his mouth. “Nana always has an opening if there’s a kid in need. I’ve seen her give up her own bed and make up the couch at midnight for an ‘emergency’ placement. And for war orphans? Nana woulda slept on the porch to give those kids a home.”

Nate lifted his head and fixed grim eyes on the hacker. “So how did Homeland Security get involved?”

Hardison licked his lips slowly, hesitating, and Eliot stepped in. “Lemme guess,” he said quietly. “The group in Afghanistan is on a government watch list, supposed to have some kind of ties to the Taliban. Probably financial.” When Hardison nodded, he sighed and turned to Nate. “It’s simple – you want to do anything in Afghanistan, you gotta go through the Taliban. If you’re getting refugees out, you’re gonna need safe routes. You need safe routes? Gotta grease a few palms. Doesn’t mean you’re supporting terrorists, it just means you know how things work.”

“So,” Nate said slowly, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head, “aid groups toss a few dollars to the Taliban, that gets them on our government’s radar. Those groups make contact with organizations here, or ask for funds to help finance their operation, which includes paying off the Taliban, and now Homeland Security can step in. They can investigate it as a conspiracy to finance terrorist groups. And once they invoke the Patriot Act, they can investigate whoever the hell they want to. Including Nana. All without a single shred of evidence against her.”

“But … that’s insane!” Sophie protested. “We’re talking about getting children out of a war zone, not blowing up the bloody Twin Towers! She’s not a terrorist, she’s helping _orphans_ for God’s sake!”

“Tell that to Homeland Security,” Hardison said bitterly. “In their eyes, she’s now a conspirator against the United States of America. They could put her on a plane for Gitmo today.”

Sophie turned to Nate. “They can’t really do that, can they? I thought you Americans were all about liberty and freedom! Whatever happened to that?”

“We decided looking for terrorists under our national bed was more important,” he said scathingly. “And, yes, they _can_ do that. Under the Patriot Act, the government can do pretty much whatever the hell it wants. Hell, the TSA is groping three-year-olds in airports! And more and more churches are coming under surveillance for harboring undocumented immigrants or, like Nana’s, helping war refugees resettle here.” He shook his head firmly and began to pace. “Conrad and his people are thorough. They went through Hardison’s background, found Nana, and did some digging. Hell, for all we know _he_ was behind placing those kids with her. Manufacturing a weakness he could later exploit.”

“Yeah, well, it worked,” Hardison seethed. He stared at Nate through wide, glittering eyes, desperation bleeding from him. “I can make us disappear,” he said harshly. “But I can’t make Nana and those kids disappear. And if we go underground, that leaves her vulnerable. Conrad will take out his anger on her. Shit, he’ll turn her into an enemy of the state! I won’t do that. I _can’t_ do that!”

“I know,” Nate sighed. “More importantly, Conrad knows that.” He stopped pacing and turned to Eliot. “Looks like he found those weaknesses we talked about earlier,” he said quietly.

“No,” Sophie breathed. “You can’t possibly–”

But Eliot knew better. And for a moment he thought he might be sick.

“We don’t have a choice,” Nate said quietly, his eyes never leaving Eliot. “Conrad has been very careful not to leave us one. He’s done his homework too well. And I have no doubt that Nana is not the only vulnerability he’s prepared to exploit.”

Eliot closed his eyes and bowed his head, a parade of faces flashing through his mind. Maggie, Tara, Archie, his sister and her family, hell, Aimee and Willie; they were all weaknesses, were all leverage. And any one of them or all of them would be classified as an “acceptable loss” to a man like Conrad.

“I’ll call and set up a meeting,” Nate sighed.

Eliot lifted his head and opened his eyes, fixing them on Nate. “I’m comin’ with you,” he said in a low, hard voice, bracing for a fight. To his relief, though, Nate nodded his agreement.

“I’m comin’, too,” Hardison declared. “Bastard needs to know he can’t just–”

“No,” Nate breathed, cocking his head slightly and narrowing his eyes. Hardison and Sophie both started to argue, but he shook his head. “Eliot and I will meet with Conrad.” He smiled faintly and turned, taking in Sophie, Hardison and Parker with his gaze. “I have another job for the three of you.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Hardison sat at the desk and stared blankly at his computer, his mind for once unable to understand any of the data on the screen before him. Parker was sitting beside him, occasionally trying to make stilted conversation, but he heard little of it. He couldn’t get past the outright panic he’d heard in Nana’s voice. He’d never known her to panic over _anything_ , had never imagined she was capable of it.

Something in the very foundation of his world had shifted.

“You all right?”

Eliot’s low, gruff voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see the hitter slipping into the chair at his other side, a beer in his hand. Yeah, just now alcohol sounded like a very good idea.

As if reading his mind – and hell, with him, who knew? – Eliot raised his other hand and held out the beer in it to him with a faint smile. “It ain’t orange soda,” the hitter cracked, “but I figured you could use somethin’ stronger under the circumstances.”

He took the beer gratefully and immediately took a long, deep swig.

Eliot leaned forward and caught Parker’s attention. “I got some more of that disgusting cereal you like at the store. Supper’s gonna be a while, so if you’re hungry–”

She was up and gone in a flash. Hardison couldn’t blame her. She still wasn’t good at dealing with other people’s emotions, and he was much too rattled to help her.

They’d gone after _Nana_.

He must have spoken that last aloud, because Eliot sighed and shook his head. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’m sorry, man. But trust me,” he lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Hardison, “we’ll get him to back off her. One way or another.”

Hardison nodded, but couldn’t help feeling a slight chill at those last few words. He had a fairly good idea of what some of Eliot’s “ways” might entail, and, while it wouldn’t particularly bother him to see Conrad cut into tiny pieces and then run through a blender, he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted Eliot to get any more blood on his hands than he already had. He _was_ sure Nana wouldn’t appreciate him sacrificing another piece of his soul for her.

“It ain’t right,” he said. “All she’s ever done is help people, take in kids nobody else in this world cares about and try to make somethin’ of ’em, help them make somethin’ of themselves, and now she could lose _everything_ because of me–”

“It’s not because of you,” Eliot said firmly. “Don’t put this on yourself. This is all on that bastard Conrad. He knows she hasn’t done anything wrong, but he doesn’t care. She’s a pawn. That’s all _we_ are. They fucked up in wanting Damien gone, now they need him back, and we’re just the means to that end. And Nana’s a means of getting to us. It’s tactics–”

“ _She’s my Nana!_ ” he shouted, his fury erupting. He slammed his beer down onto the desk, dangerously close to his computer, and the apartment went silent, all eyes turning to him. “She _raised_ me, saw somethin’ in me worth savin’! And just what the hell is it with the world’s obsession with Damien fucking Moreau? He’s so bad a dude we got blackmailed into takin’ him down, and now he’s so important we’re gettin’ blackmailed into turnin’ him loose! What is it about him that makes everybody lose their minds and bow down to him? Hell, even _you_ lost your shit over him! Got so tangled up in havin’ been his boy that you couldn’t figure out which team you were playin’ for–”

He regretted the words the moment they were out, knew from the mingled shame and hurt that cascaded through Eliot’s eyes and over his face that they’d struck a still very raw nerve, and would have given anything to take them back. But they were out and the damage was done, and all he could do was steel himself for the brutal beat-down he was about to get. And probably deserved.

It never came. Instead, Eliot merely lifted his chin, blue eyes dark with pain, and pushed himself out of his chair. “I always knew,” he said softly, a world of anguish in his voice. “That’s what was tearin’ me apart.” He turned and walked away from Hardison, and out of the apartment.

Hardison heaved a deep sigh and dropped his head into shaking hands, bitterly ashamed of himself. He knew, he _knew_ , what going after Moreau had cost Eliot, how it had twisted the man up so badly inside he’d damn near come apart at every seam. And while he’d been rightfully angry at what it had nearly cost _him_ – sometimes he still dreamed of drowning – he had eventually forgiven Eliot and they’d made their peace.

Or so he’d thought. Until he’d stuck a knife in that wound and sliced it open again.

Nana would be _so_ proud.

“He’ll come back,” said a soft voice beside him. “And you can apologize then.”

He lifted his head and looked into Sophie’s deep, dark eyes, exhaling unsteadily at the warmth and compassion in them. “I messed up,” he rasped.

She smiled sweetly and reached out, taking one of his hands in hers and squeezing gently. “Yes, you did. But he’ll understand why when he calms down, and he’ll give you a chance to make it right.”

“I just–” He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on her hand. “I’ve never heard her _scared_ before,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes and a hard, painful knot filling his throat. “She’s always been the strongest person I knew. She’s stared down the state, abusive parents, drug dealers, cops, gang bangers and a politician or two, and never once flinched. But when I heard her voice on my phone– That bastard _scared_ her!” he spat. “Just to get to _me_!”

“Hardison– _Alec_ , look at me,” Sophie commanded softly. He did, and found himself gazing into her compelling eyes. “We will not let any harm come to your Nana,” she said, not at all the grifter now, but a woman who had come to understand what family was and what it meant. “I promise you. We’ll do what we have to, but your Nana will be safe. You have my word on that.”

He stared at her for long moments, unable to speak. _My word._ The word of a grifter, a professional liar–

And it was enough.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Conrad had been waiting for their call. “Two hours,” had been the response to Nate’s request for a meeting. “I’ve been dying to see the inside of your bar.”

It didn’t give them much room to maneuver, and Nate knew he wasn’t the only one worried that every move they made from this point forward was somehow playing into the hands of their enemies. _Can’t be helped,_ he kept reminding himself. This wasn’t a fight they were going to win by playing things safe and sane. “You have your jobs,” he told the others firmly. “Worrying about what Conrad has in store for us is playing _his_ game, and that’s not who we are. That’s not how we’re going to get clear of this.”

He knew just by looking at them that it was only their trust in him and each other that was keeping them together and on task. “We’re going to know exactly what we’re up against soon enough,” had been his parting words once the time came for him and Eliot to go down for their meeting.

“You know Parker’s going to rabbit,” Eliot said as they got in the elevator together. Their coms were off, safely stowed in pockets in case of an emergency; Nate had argued that things were going to be difficult enough without him being distracted at the wrong moment by something one of the others was saying. “This is too big for her – she can’t handle it.”

“She’s not and she can,” Nate argued quietly. He had absolutely no logical basis for his belief, but he knew with unshakeable certainty that Parker would be the last to bolt their little family, short of Eliot himself. “Conrad knew what he was doing going after Hardison. Not only do we need him for anything they want us to pull off, but Parker’s not going to go anywhere while there’s a chance Hardison can be hurt.”

Eliot sighed. “Strategically it’s a good move,” he agreed.

“We’ve been too predictable,” Nate said as the elevator door opened, and the noise of the bar’s afternoon clientele filtered in. “Too complacent. That stops now.”

Conrad and two of his associates had taken a table in the back corner of McRory’s main dining area. Nate scanned the room and saw Cora on duty behind the bar. Signaling her with a glance, he indicated the poker room and was rewarded with a nod confirming it was free.

“Go,” he said to Eliot. Without watching to see how Eliot approached Conrad, Nate continued into the back area. He needed a few moments to catch his breath, to try and control the rage that was threatening to boil over onto everything around him. _What the hell am I going to do?_ He would have sacrificed himself for the rest of them without a second thought. He was pretty sure he could have lived with letting Eliot come with him. For reasons Nate couldn’t begin to fathom, once upon a time Eliot had seen something in him worth following. He wouldn’t dishonor that by pushing the younger man away in a situation like this.

 _Not to mention, if anyone can find a way out of Conrad’s trap …_ Nate’s fingers tightened around the back of the chair facing the door, and he fought the urge to throw it across the room. “Breathe,” he reminded himself, inhaling and exhaling deeply. _You’re just scared._

The thought bowed his head. It was easy to understand and embrace the rage – it was harder to admit that he hadn’t been this genuinely frightened in far too long. Not since that horrible moment in the doctor’s office when everybody had started talking about Sam not being able to pull through. _I can’t lose them. Not to this. Not like this._

Before he could follow the fear to its logical conclusion, the door swung open. Eliot came in first, followed closely by the three CIA agents. Nate straightened up, forcing the anger and the fear back automatically and leaving no sign of anything but calm control in its wake. “Director,” he greeted Conrad with a sharp nod.

Conrad actually smiled. “I’m glad you’ve seen reason, Mr. Ford.”

Eliot had been moving into position at Nate’s shoulder when Conrad spoke, and Nate briefly felt his hitter tense. The moment passed quickly, allowing Nate to turn his attention fully on their new adversary. “You didn’t leave us much choice,” he admitted, indicating that Conrad should sit before taking his own chair. “How long have you been planning that move against Alec Hardison’s foster mother, by the way? That’s not something that’s going to play well in the press if it gets out.”

It was a calculated risk, but Nate knew he needed to get Conrad’s full measure before he could start working on any sort of a real plan. “I prefer to make my point quickly – particularly in a situation like this where we’re aiming for a window of extremely limited opportunity.”

“So you do have a plan already in place,” Eliot said. Conrad’s attention slid up to meet the younger man’s eyes, and Nate was pleased to see that he didn’t like having to interact with Eliot directly.

“We do,” Conrad said finally, shifting so that he was largely addressing Nate once more, but including Eliot somewhat in the discussion. “Two weeks from tonight, Majid Shahriari will be in Islamabad. Dr. Shahriari was Damien Moreau’s primary contact in the Iranian scientific community when it came to moving nuclear materials into the country.”

“And you want to make sure he doesn’t keep his dance card filled with any other players,” Nate interjected.

Conrad nodded. “We’ve done our best to prevent Shahriari from settling in with a new supplier. Word is already filtering through the local black market of Moreau’s escape from San Lorenzo.” Eliot made a small choking sound at Conrad’s choice of words; Nate smiled slightly, but didn’t draw any further attention to the unspoken commentary.

If Conrad noticed, he gave no outward sign. “The good doctor suspects that he will be meeting with Moreau, but he hasn’t been able to confirm. We will continue stringing him along until it’s time for the meet, but I have no problem considering any input your people might have on that score.”

Nate studied his fingers for a long moment, flipping through dozens of potential responses before settling on one he felt comfortable going forward with. “We can set up a backstory that will put Eliot at Moreau’s side again.” It was the last thing in the world Nate wanted to do, but if they were really going forward with this it was the only thing that made sense. “I’ll work directly with your people on tightening up whatever you’ve got in place.”

The three men across the table stiffened almost exactly at the same time. Nate shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “You’re the one who said we were underestimating ourselves, Director.”

Conrad chuckled – the sound was low and dangerous in the largely empty room. “So I did. I would appreciate it if you do me the courtesy of not underestimating me in return.”

 _Busted._ Nate swore inwardly, but kept his expression outwardly smooth and calm. “You don’t need the others,” he argued. “Hardison maybe, although in your shoes I’d be worried about turning the world’s greatest hacker loose in _my_ system. Sophie and Parker won’t add anything to what you’ve laid out here.”

“You can’t control Moreau at a distance.” Conrad raised a finger to illustrate his point. “Nobody in this room believes that Spencer can be trusted once he gets within fifty feet of his old master. Putting Ms. Devereaux in the mix gives us added security.” A second finger went up. “Hardison will behave himself unless he likes the idea of visiting his beloved Nana in federal prison.” Nate felt his chest tighten as a third finger went up. “Did you really think we wouldn’t have a part of this plan only the world’s greatest thief could pull off?”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	4. I'm Going To Want To Kill Him

He’d been free of San Lorenzo for nearly a week, and the only fault Damien Moreau could find with his new arrangement was that his current jailers hadn’t seen fit to show themselves yet. Other than that, and the small matter of his still nonexistent freedom, he had everything he could possibly want at his disposal.

Late morning found him standing on one of the villa’s many balconies, overlooking the grassy countryside. If it hadn’t been for the heat, and the very distinctive scent on the breeze, he would have said he was some place in Central Europe. He hadn’t made any serious effort to verify his suspicions, but those two elements combined told him he was in Pakistan.

Which was an interesting development indeed. His guards were European, and the ones he’d heard talk spoke almost exclusively in German – but his tailor was Italian, and the man who brought his meals and answered the few questions he’d bothered to ask was British. Something very big and very international was brewing around him; whatever it was, they needed his cooperation. They needed him badly, and that simple turn of events gave him power.

 _And I know just what I’m going to do with that power._ Truth be told, he’d thought of little else, since the door had locked on his cell two years ago. “Nathan Ford.” His hand tightened dangerously on the tumbler of brandy he’d been enjoying. Ford was going to pay for his arrogance and his insults in the most personally painful way Moreau could devise. This was a task he would relish doing himself.

Once it was behind him, he would turn his attention fully on Eliot Spencer – a far more intimate prospect when it came to matters of revenge. There was regret there – he’d seen it in Eliot’s eyes before being banished to his tiny cell in the tombs. Regret and plenty of fear – it gave him multiple openings to come at his former friend. Damien took another sip of his brandy, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing it down.

His ultimate price for cooperating with his jailers would be the chance to unmake Eliot Spencer, he decided. He would separate him from everything he believed in now, everyone that kept him grounded, until nothing was left in his world but a burning desire in him to make things right with Moreau.

Whether Damien would _allow_ him that chance remained to be seen.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Dinner was a very late, very serious affair. Parker was grateful that Eliot kept the food simple; ignoring everything else on the table, she took a double-helping of her favorite fettuccine Alfredo and focused all her attention on savoring every bite.

Sophie had tried to brief Nate and Eliot on the progress she, Parker and Hardison had made while the two of them had been meeting with Conrad, but Nate had cut her off. “You know what I need. I trust you to make it happen.” He’d kissed her then – a rare public show of affection between them that made Parker feel unexpectedly sad and nervous.

Nate had taken charge while they ate, telling them about the meeting with Conrad and what had been discussed and decided. Sophie had been understandably upset about the idea of getting close to Moreau, but she’d accepted it when Nate said they had no other choice. Hardison had reacted to the news about his participation by withdrawing even more deeply into himself – something Parker wouldn’t have believed was possible.

She wasn’t surprised to find out the CIA had plans for her too – and was actually a little confused about why Nate was looking at her like he’d failed somehow when he admitted as much. “We’re in this together, right?” she asked, meeting his eyes directly and refusing to back down.

“Right.” Eliot had answered for Nate, which was a little surprising but Parker was grateful to have the emotional back-up.

“I had hoped …” Nate began, but Sophie shook her head.

“Let it go, Nate. I’m sure we all appreciate that you wanted to protect some of us from this, but as you said a long time ago ‘there’s a reason we work together’.” She paused, glancing at Parker. “We’re in this together, like Parker said. Nobody’s running, nobody’s hiding – we’re going to come at this and figure a way through it together.”

The tone of the evening shifted slightly after Sophie’s pronouncement – talk meandered a bit off the subject of what they could expect once they reached Pakistan. Hardison contributed almost nothing to any of the discussions no matter how trivial, and near the end of the meal he got another call on his cell phone. “It’s the attorney,” he said, looking to Nate for permission. “This could take a while.”

“Go on home,” Nate said. “We’ll see you back here in the morning.”

“Six o’clock,” Hardison agreed, getting to his feet and answering the phone. Parker tensed momentarily when it looked like he was going to leave without saying anything to her, but at the last second before he stepped away from the table he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. The feel of his lips on her skin warmed the thief; she barely resisted the urge to grab his arm and keep him beside her.

Things seemed to fall apart a bit after that, since they’d literally talked the job to death by that point. “We’ll clear the table,” Nate announced, but even though he and Sophie went about stacking dishes and carrying him into the kitchen, it seemed to be an excuse for them to talk at least somewhat privately.

“I need to talk to you.” Parker looked up sharply, seeing that Eliot was watching her from across the table. When she nodded at him, his eyes ticked towards Nate and Sophie. “Parker and I are going downstairs for a drink.”

Neither of the other two raised a protest, lending credence to Parker’s assumption that they were looking to be alone together. _The way Hardison and I should be._ Intellectually she understood Hardison’s current preoccupation wasn’t her fault, but it didn’t change how she was feeling.

“You remember what I told you about how you and I do the hard things, the things they can’t?” Eliot asked, once they were safely in the elevator.

She did remember. It had been a difficult moment, realizing that the very thing she’d been trying to fight in her soul was something she could use to help the others, to make things better for them. “The things they won’t do,” she said quietly, repeating the correction Eliot had made when he was trying to explain things to her.

The hitter put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Parker sensed that if it had been anybody else, he would have put his arm around their shoulder and hugged them to his side, but she really didn’t want to be restrained right now, not even for a good reason.

“That’s right,” he said, letting her go as the elevator doors slid open. “There’s a way this is going to go down, Parker,” he said as they walked into the mostly empty bar. “And it’s not going to be the way the CIA wants it to go. It’s not even going to be the way Nate thinks it has to go.”

Parker felt her stomach tying itself into knots again. “Will it make everybody safe? Will it help Hardison’s Nana?”

Eliot huffed out a quiet breath, signaling the bartender for two beers. “It’s the only way I can see to make this all go away for good.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“Are you going to be okay with all this?” Sophie leaned on the counter and watched as Nate loaded the dirty plates in the dishwasher.

Nate’s answering laugh was sharp and bitter. “Sophie, I’m not okay with any of this. I think I’ve made myself perfectly clear on that score.”

He was so frighteningly, terrifyingly intelligent, but in the same breath he could act like one of the most naïve fools Sophie had ever known. “Nate …” she said, reproachfully.

Straightening up with an explosive sigh, Nate joined her at the counter and took her hands again – raising them to his lips and brushing a warm kiss against each set of knuckles. “I’m going to want to kill him,” he said softly, looking deep into her eyes. “Every time he looks at you, every time he lays a hand on you, I’m going to be thinking of how much I want to hurt him.” Leaning in, he kissed her lightly on the lips; Sophie shivered at the touch. 

“You’re also the only one who’s going to be able to see Eliot through the part he has to play,” he added. “I’m going to have to put myself in direct opposition to Moreau – there’s no opening for me to properly back him up. That’s going to fall to you.” He smiled sadly. “And when you do everything you have to do to get us through this, you’re going to be so brilliant and believable that I’m going to be dying inside by inches every moment.”

On the one hand it was everything she needed to hear – on the other she would have given everything for him to have never had to say the words. “I … um … was thinking that Annie Kroy would be the best person to handle this,” she said, trying to shift the focus of the conversation somewhat.

He pulled back from her a little bit, considering what she’d said. “A little hard edged, don’t you think? Conrad mentioned you being ‘arm candy’.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We’re talking Conrad’s direction on how to run this game now?” When he acknowledged her point with a small shrug she went on, “Nuclear or not, we’re talking about arms dealing. That’s Annie’s game.” A small spike of fear lanced through her and she sobered. “She’s also the best equipped to deal with Moreau as an equal.” She drew in a breath, and was horrified to hear how unsteady it was. “I can’t be Sophie with a man like that, Nate,” she said, feeling her control start to slip. “Or Katherine or Charlotte, or …”

She was dimly aware of Nate moving around the counter and gathering her into a quick, tight embrace. “Don’t ask me to be,” she breathed, turning into him more fully and burying her face against his chest as she felt the hysterics start to rise. “Please, Nate …”

“Shhh …” His arms snugged even tighter around her. “God, Sophie don’t … please …”

“I’m sorry …” she murmured as the tears finally broke free. “I’m sorry …” Nate was expecting her to be strong, expecting her to be able to support him and this was bigger than anything she’d ever tackled in her life.

“He can’t have Sophie.” The words were soft, but fierce – penetrating her swelling panic more effectively than anything else Nate could have said or done. Pulling back, she looked up into his eyes. “He’s already got his hooks into Eliot,” Nate said, his expression deadly. “He can’t have you. I’ll kill him myself first.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Damien watched from the balcony overlooking the courtyard as three black SUVs entered through the main gate and rolled up the circular drive to the front of the house. He had been stunned at first, and furious, when his captors had _finally_ bothered to share their plans with him. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to strangle that bastard Conrad on the spot.

_”You’ll be working with some old friends. Nathan Ford, Eliot Spencer, and a few others I’m sure you remember.”_

Conrad’s smirk as he’d mentioned those names had set Damien’s blood to boiling, and he’d decided then and there that no matter what else happened, he’d find a way to kill the man. He wasn’t some “asset” to be used and manipulated by the CIA. He was _Damien Moreau_ , the man who’d built an empire from _nothing_ and had made entire governments bend to his will. He’d crushed a hundred men like Conrad under his foot like so many ants, and before he was done he would crush this one too, along with Nate Ford and his precious team.

Including Eliot Spencer.

Almost immediately, however, his rage had cooled into something far more useful and far more dangerous. Oh, he still planned to destroy Ford, certainly, but first he would use the man to get back all that had been taken from him. It seemed only fitting, since Ford had been the one to take it. And Eliot would be the agent of his destruction.

Fair punishment for the man who had betrayed him.

Anger twisted through him anew at that thought. He had _made_ Eliot, had taken him in and made a place for him, had allowed the man to discover and perfect his true talents, had turned him into a force and then allowed him to walk away … and this was how the ungrateful bastard repaid him? It was bad enough that he had been brought down by a band of thieves and _con men_ , but that _Eliot_ had helped–

No, the man had to pay for that. And in the most painful way possible.

Outside, car doors opened and his new “allies” emerged from the SUVs – a slim blonde woman he hadn’t encountered in San Lorenzo but knew to be the thief Parker; Hardison, Ford’s “24-year-old genius with a smartphone and problems with authority” who had cost Ribera his election and _him_ his safe haven; the lovely dark-haired woman who had made an entire country fall in love with her as the martyred Rebecca Ibanez and who had made all of Europe her playground as the grifter Sophie Devereaux; Nate Ford himself, whose smirking visage still troubled Damien’s sleep; and, of course, Eliot Spencer, who made his way to stand just slightly behind Ford’s right shoulder, his compact frame seemingly loose but carrying a subtle tension that Damien recognized only too well.

He’d seen that same stance countless times over the years that Eliot had stood watch over _him_. He could well imagine how completely those cool blue eyes had catalogued every strength and weakness in the villa’s defenses, noted every view, every angle, every blind spot, no doubt had already picked out and studied every armed guard, visible and invisible. The man was nothing if not professional, a born protector, a born _soldier_ … and a natural killer.

Myles Chapman had forgotten that, and had paid the price. Damien wouldn’t make that same mistake.

Still, as he studied Eliot, he couldn’t help the mournful sigh that escaped him. The man truly had let himself go. Once upon a time he had been the jewel in Damien’s crown, his hair cut short and styled to show off its natural curl, the weapon that was his body concealed beneath expensive Italian suits, his penchant for vulgar Native American jewelry restricted to fine watches. Damien sighed again. He had worked _so hard_ on Eliot, teaching him, shaping him, beating his rough edges into sharp, stylish angles, refining the raw, unsophisticated hick until he’d shone like pure gold. He’d taught the man to play chess and talk about _wine_ , for God’s sake!

And Eliot had thrown all that away, had chosen to appear before him by that pool in Washington and now here in thrift-store clothing and dirty work boots, unshaven and with long hair, not the sleek and manicured pet Damien had so painstakingly groomed and housebroken, but Nate Ford’s unkempt yard dog.

Well, if the man were going to appear at his side again, charade or no, that was going to change. Nate Ford might not care how his people looked, what their appearance said about him, but Damien Moreau _wasn’t_ Nathan Ford.

And the first step toward unmaking Eliot Spencer would be to remake him into his old image. Make him remember what he’d been, and make his “family” see him for what he _was_.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Eliot took a few moments to gather himself before he got out of the SUV. On the one hand he’d been grateful for his brief separation from the others for the drive in from the nearby base as it meant he could ease up on controlling himself somewhat. On the other hand, it had left him alone with his thoughts for much too long.

_Nobody in this room believes that Spencer can be trusted once he gets within fifty feet of his old master._

Conrad’s words, but Eliot had to wonder how many of the others were thinking them. Even after all these years away from the man, Damien still had the ability to twist his mind and distort his thinking. They’d all seen it during that first run at him, and Hardison had nearly paid the price. And however much they insisted they trusted him, they’d be fools not to have a few doubts.

God knew he did.

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, tried to expel his unease upon that breath, and finally got out of the car. Nate and Sophie were already out of their car and assessing their surroundings, and Hardison and Parker were approaching from the third SUV. He snorted softly at that. No doubt Conrad had thought that splitting them up would keep them off balance and make them easier to control. Bastard obviously didn’t know them nearly as well as he thought he did.

Arrogance like that could get a man killed.

He drew in and released another breath and made his way to Sophie and Nate, looking around at and studying their surroundings as he did. By instinct he counted guns, including the ones he couldn’t see but assumed were there, and by habit he noted strategic entrance, exit and vantage points, already putting together a mental map of the villa.

“Don’t know if they’re just for Damien or for us, too,” he said quietly as he took his place just behind Nate’s right shoulder, “but Conrad’s got guards all over, at least twenty. And a few snipers.”

Sophie turned then, her character slipping for just a moment, but one quick look from Nate was enough to bring her back on task.

“I figured as much,” he said. “Conrad doesn’t trust us any more than he does Moreau.” He swept a sober, compelling gaze over each of them. “I want you all to be on your guard at all times,” he said. “Moreau will be waiting to exploit any weakness, any mistake, and Conrad will be prepared to eliminate any of us. _Stick to the plan._ We’re swimming with the sharks here, and they’ve got us surrounded.”

Eliot studied the faces before him – Sophie’s, drawn and lined with worry; Parker’s, pinched and pale; Nate’s, his mouth grim and brows slightly furrowed; and Hardison’s–

_Jesus, Hardison._

The hacker seemed unable of late to say more than five words at a time, and Eliot suddenly realized just how much he missed the younger man’s ceaseless chatter and vivacious manner. They hadn’t bickered in days, hadn’t teased Parker or irritated Sophie or Nate, hadn’t baited any of Conrad’s unsmiling agents. And as far as he knew, Hardison hadn’t once entertained himself during the long flight by hacking into any other passenger’s phone.

And his own phone was being used strictly for conversations with Nana.

More than ever, Eliot admired the woman he’d never met and seethed at the outrage done her. Even now, facing the full might of the U.S. government, she was trying to keep _Hardison_ calm, trying to keep _him_ from worrying about _her_. And trying to keep him from doing anything stupid. Eliot could hear Hardison’s love for the woman in his voice when he talked to her, could see the worry in his face after each call. And the rage in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

The rage that was there even now.

Eliot realized he’d have to talk to Hardison, though God alone knew what he’d say. But that rage was dangerous, would draw Damien’s attention like a beacon and would make the younger man vulnerable to Damien’s manipulation. He couldn’t let that happen. He _knew_ what lay down that road, knew the hell that yawned just beyond Damien’s seduction, and he’d be damned if he’d lose his friend to it. If he’d lose _any_ of these people to it.

He looked around again, let his gaze rest on each face for a few seconds, and felt something rise in him he’d thought he put down years ago.

Damien couldn’t have them. Conrad couldn’t have them. They were _his_ , and he’d lay waste to the entire fucking world before he lost a single one.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


_”If you’ve studied us like you say, you’ll know that you need to give us room to work. You won’t like a lot of what you see, but you came to us.”_

Sophie hugged her arms across her chest, shivering even though the air was soft and warm around them. Director Conrad _hadn’t_ liked a lot of what Nate had said on the ride from the airport, but he also hadn’t outright forbidden him the free hand he was demanding with Moreau. _”Man like that, we need to play to his ego. I’m going to need to give a lot of ground up front, in order to get properly inside his head.”_

She was part of that – she and Eliot. Hardison had prepared a file on Annie Kroy before they’d left Boston that she had dutifully handed over to Conrad. “Moreau thrives on challenges,” Nate had explained. “He needs to beat me, but the things he takes from me need to be worth his time. Annie is worth his time.”

_”He can’t have Sophie. I’ll kill him myself first._

“Annie?”

Sophie blinked, turning smoothly to see that Nate had come up behind her. “Everything okay?”

Her answering smile was slow and lazy, just this side of arrogant. “I understand the job, Ford.” Sophie could feel her posture shifting as Annie took over. “I make nice with Mr. Moreau, and help him square things with his little science geek friend.”

Eliot had come up to them then, leaning in to report what he’d seen. The sight of him drew Sophie’s thoughts inexorably to the switchblade in her pocket. _”You’re going to need to get his attention.”_ The three of them had talked until dawn the night they left Boston, and Eliot hadn’t pulled any punches when filling her in on Moreau’s view of “the fairer sex”. _”Whatever you do, you need to keep him from seeing you as something he can just take. You’re something to be won – something that challenges him.”_ They’d debated and discarded literally dozens of moves before settling on two Sophie felt comfortable pulling off.

“We also need to make sure Parker stays off his radar,” Eliot had pointed out. “There’s no way that ends well.”

Nate had made a comment then about suspending “no stabbing Wednesdays” being an idea he could wholeheartedly support, and the three of them agreed that they were too tired to strategize any further.

 _Snipers._ Sophie had been trying not to focus on Eliot’s report – worrying instead about getting comfortable in Annie’s skin – but the word caught her attention like nothing else could. Horrified, she looked at Nate, who immediately gave her a faint, but reassuring nod. _Well I’m glad you bloody well anticipated this,_ she thought, turning her back on the men and looking up at the villa.

For all his talk about needing their help, Director Conrad was taking this very seriously. The building in front of her was arguably the most beautiful prison she would ever see the inside of, but all the luxury in the world couldn’t change the fact that it _was_ a prison.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Nate felt the tension in his spine ease a bit once Parker and Hardison were standing with them. “First part of this is going to go quickly,” he said quietly. “You know what’s at stake here, and you know that failure is not an option. I’m going to need you to trust me like you’ve never trusted me before.” Even though Sophie was standing a little ways off, she glanced towards him at that. Mastermind and grifter locked eyes for a moment, and then Sophie turned her attention back to the villa.

“We’re with you,” Parker said firmly, pulling his focus back to the team. Nate glanced at Hardison, but all he got from the hacker was a tight, sharp nod. Reaching up, he gripped the younger man’s shoulder and shared a worried look with Eliot. This was going to be one hell of a balancing act, and the amount of throat he was going to have to show up front to make it work offended every bit of Irish pride Nate possessed.

Working in their favor was the fact that Conrad had sacrificed a great deal of security in the name of comfort. The villa was large enough to comfortably house Director Conrad and all his lackeys, the team and Moreau, but that meant that even with the best surveillance equipment in the world at his disposal, Conrad was going to have a difficult time keeping an eye on all of them simultaneously.

He was counting on that.

“After we brief you and Moreau on the updated timetable, your people will have a chance to settle in.” Conrad had fallen into step with him as they entered the villa. “I assume I can count on everyone to behave themselves?”

Eliot was a comforting presence at his back as Nate eyed the CIA man coolly. “We know what’s at stake, Director,” he said. “You also know what I told you on the drive over here.” It was a game with two marks, and Nate almost felt sorry for Conrad that the CIA man hadn’t realized it was already under way.

_Almost._

Two steps into the spacious living room on the first floor, Nate sensed Moreau a split second before he saw the man. Cool and elegant in his perfectly tailored casual suit, the man he’d last seen being marched off to prison in San Lorenzo was posed in front of the open French doors, enjoying what looked at a distance like very expensive brandy.

Hazel eyes met his – a snake’s eyes, giving nothing away. “Hello, Ford.”

Before he could answer, Eliot moved from his place two steps behind Nate to three steps in front of him. Moreau’s eyes tracked the shift, and Nate was pleased to see a flash of contempt bordering on hatred, before the arms dealer’s expression was carefully brought back under control.

“Hello, Damien,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. “You’re looking well.” He inclined his head towards the glass in Moreau’s hand. “I assume there’s more of that?”

That got a smile out of their enemy. “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing towards the bar at his left. Nate didn’t particularly want a drink – he’d largely given up alcohol after his father’s death – but it was to their benefit that certain expectations were met.

“Mr. Moreau,” Conrad said, stepping forward, “there has been a small change in the plan we discussed with you yesterday. Annie Kroy,” here he nodded at Sophie, who grinned, “has credentials that we believe will help smooth your reentry into the market here in the Middle East.”

Nate watched as anger flashed across Moreau’s face at the hint that he might need any assistance at all in regaining his former prominence – quickly followed by amusement as he realized who Conrad had just introduced as Annie. “A woman of hidden depths,” he said, his voice almost a purr as he stepped in close to Sophie and took one of her hands in his. “A school teacher, a grifter, and now …” He paused, and Nate silently congratulated himself on not rolling his eyes in response to the attempt at dramatic effect. “ … a fellow arms dealer willing to help me reestablish my local contacts?”

He’d never been prouder of Sophie in his life. “My family’s done business with you in the past, Mr. Moreau,” she said, still smiling up at him. A _snikt_ sounded sharply in the brief moment of quiet. It was followed by a blur of motion; by the time Nate’s vision cleared, Sophie had stepped in even closer to Moreau and there was suddenly a switchblade against the side of his neck. “Hold fire!” Conrad screamed as a dizzying number of weapons appeared around the room – all of them aimed at Annie Kroy.

He’d toyed with the idea of not telling Conrad they were considering a move like this, but sanity and a deep-seated desire not to get Sophie shot out of the gate had won in the end. The Director was still obviously furious with him, but Nate met his gaze without flinching. _I warned you that you weren’t going to like what you saw._

“Small point of order, however,” Sophie said, once the noise level in the room had subsided to the point where she could guarantee being heard. “I’ll stand with you, but we stand as equals. Annie Kroy is no man’s arm candy.”

Moreau’s eyes had never left Sophie’s – and while he showed no hint of fear, Nate imagined he could see a glimmer of respect that definitely hadn’t been there before. _Good call, Eliot._

Sophie waited another beat and then stepped back out of Moreau’s reach, pulling the knife away. Closing it deftly, she turned and tossed it underhand to Conrad. Nate let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and resumed pouring himself a drink.

It wasn’t until Moreau raised a finger to his neck that everyone in the room seemed to realize that Sophie had _actually_ cut him. His expression was deadly cold as he wiped a thumb across the injury and studied what he’d found. The smear of blood was small, but it showed dark against his skin. Nate raised his glass and was taking his first sip of Conrad’s whisky when Moreau smiled and inclined his head at Sophie. “First blood to you, my dear. I stand corrected.”

Sometimes it really was about choosing the right bait – if you set your trap with something attractive enough, all you had to do was stand back and let your quarry do the work for you. “We’ve developed a back-story to explain Mr. Spencer’s return to your service,” Conrad said into the sudden stillness. Nate gave him points for his sense of timing, but his delivery resembled Parker in the early years of Sophie teaching her how to grift.

Fortunately for Nate’s purposes, Eliot was attractive enough bait that Moreau wouldn’t be paying more than cursory attention to the director. _”He’s not going to make it easy.”_ Eliot had been adamant on that point, and from what he’d seen so far Nate believed his hitter. _“I betrayed him twice and lived to tell about it. You’re going to have to trust me to work that history to our advantage.”_

Nate had agreed, even though he wanted Moreau near Eliot almost less than he’d wanted the man touching Sophie.

“I already told you what it was going to take, Director Conrad,” Moreau said. He began to circle Eliot, making a show of studying the hitter and clearly not liking what he saw. “Your stories mean nothing if he can’t be made to look the part.” Eliot stared straight ahead, arms folded over his chest – he might have been carved from stone for all the reaction he was giving Moreau.

His “former master” seemed to realize Eliot’s response to him was deliberate. He finished his circuit dangerously inside the hitter’s personal space, forcing eye contact. “A mongrel’s barking adds nothing to discussions of strategy,” he sneered. Contempt was so thick in his voice Nate half-expected Eliot to finish him off just out of principle. “If you want my full attention and my cooperation, you will take this one out of my sight and make him fit to appear at my side.”

“Eliot,” Nate said. He made the name part question, part warning. Eliot didn’t flinch.

“It’s fine.” His voice was tight – almost strangled – telling Nate in no uncertain terms that he was anything but. _Nobody in this room trusts Spencer once he gets within fifty feet of his old master._ Nate felt his own heart rate speed up – not even a room of government issue weapons aimed at one of his people had been as frightening as the tension that was suddenly swirling around Eliot and Moreau.

They’d known the makeover was coming; Eliot had told them as much. _“It’s as much about control as it is about image,”_ he’d said. _“Same psychological tactics the military uses. He makes you over into an extension of his own power.”_ There was something else going on here though. Nate set his drink down carefully, not wanting to risk drawing attention to himself.

 _He couldn’t tell whether Eliot was playing Moreau or not._ It was a sobering realization. Something deep and ugly was being triggered in the hitter’s psyche, and Nate had made no allowances for it.

After another long, painful moment, Eliot stepped back, pivoted, and made a point of looking directly at Nate – asking permission without saying a word. “Director,” Nate said calmly, looking to Conrad, “can one of your people take my man where he needs to go?” Without waiting for the man to react, Nate looked back to Eliot, releasing him with a nod.

It was only when he moved to pick up his whisky again that Nate realized his hands were shaking. Tightening his grip on the glass, he tossed off the remaining contents in one quick swallow – savoring the burn as the alcohol blazed its way down his throat.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


_My man?_ Damien sipped his brandy and smiled at Nate Ford’s weak attempt to assert his control over Eliot. Standing so close to his former lieutenant, Moreau had _felt_ the conflict as Eliot struggled to maintain the farce that things were settled and over between them.

Even so, while it was tempting to believe Nathan Ford was a broken down drunk who’d just gotten lucky in San Lorenzo, Damien wasn’t inclined to make the same mistake twice. The move with Sophie … Rebecca … Annie … whoever she was supposed to be spoke to a much more complicated game being played than might be immediately obvious to the casual observer.

 _Do you think you can distract me? Is that it?_ he wondered, studying Ford as the man joined the group now gathering in the center of the room for Conrad’s “briefing”. Unconsciously he touched the wound in his neck. The woman was an attractive piece of bait, someone he would under ordinary circumstances thoroughly enjoy taming, but Spencer was still his ultimate prize.

He looked at the dark-haired beauty, who had seated herself in a chair slightly away from the rest of the group. _Best to let myself seem tempted,_ he decided, moving to stand against one of the walls nearest her. The top chess matches were never decided in the first handful of moves. Give and take was what the game was all about – and if in the end he was able to take Ford’s queen as well as his knight, so much the better.

“Wait a minute.” One of Conrad’s assistants – a man whose name Damien hadn’t bothered to learn – raised his hand for silence. When he had it, he looked to his boss with a panicked expression on his face. “The blond girl … where is she?”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	5. A Mongrel's Barking

By the time he followed Conrad’s man out of the living room and into the foyer, Eliot’s entire body ached from the tension of simply holding himself together. He’d known facing Damien again would be hard, had known the man would _make_ it hard, but thought he’d prepared himself for it. He’d been wrong. He’d forgotten the sheer power of Damien’s presence, forgotten what it was like to have the full weight and force of it directed solely at _him_.

Had forgotten how disturbing his own instinctive response to it was.

He exhaled unsteadily and ran a shaky hand through his hair, only vaguely noticing his surroundings as his “escort” led him to and up a wide and ornate staircase. He knew at some point he’d have to start paying attention, really ought to be doing that _now_ , but at this moment Conrad’s men weren’t the real danger here.

Damien was.

 _He_ was.

When Damien had stepped inside his personal space and forced the eye contact he’d been so carefully avoiding, he’d felt something dark and primal in him, something long dormant and long forgotten, trying to rise up in response, and he’d had to force it down with an almost physical effort. It had scared him. Hell, it was scaring him now. He’d thought he’d gotten Damien out of his system, thought he’d bled all the man’s poison out of his veins, thought he’d managed to reclaim all the pieces of himself the man had once owned.

_You’re not that man any more._

Except … 

_A mongrel’s barking adds nothing to discussions of strategy._

Apparently he still was. Because Damien’s sneered insult had _stung_ , had slipped right through the defenses he’d so carefully built against this man and struck him a blow he’d never seen coming. _Mongrel._ He’d fought that battle in his early days with Damien, had endured slights about his size, his drawl, his backwater origins and rough edges, just to prove he was as good as – better than – any of the smooth, silk-suited Eurotrash Damien had always preferred.

And Damien, damn him, knew it.

_A mongrel’s barking._

Damien hadn’t chosen his words, his insult, lightly, had known _exactly_ what he was doing, what he was saying. What those words would mean to Eliot. The man wasn’t blind, wasn’t stupid, and hadn’t amassed his power and fortune by not knowing how to manipulate others. He would remember those early days, would remember the resentment and anger that had churned in Eliot and driven him past every obstacle put before him, would remember how many of those obstacles he’d put in place himself just to test his new “toy.”

_I do know you._

He did. In ways no one else – not even Nate – did. Eliot had forgotten that.

He wouldn’t forget again.

Their destination was on the second floor, and Eliot followed Conrad’s man to a door at the end of the walkway. The agent opened the door without knocking, revealing a large, airy room furnished with a sturdy worktable strewn with a tailor’s tools, several full-length mirrors, clothing racks hung with suit jackets and trousers of unmistakable quality, three over-stuffed chairs set around an ornate coffee table, and, in the far wall, a door that no doubt led to a fitting room.

Conrad’s man waved Eliot inside with a mocking flourish.

“Enzo will be here shortly. He has orders to make you … presentable,” he said, casting an openly scornful gaze over Eliot’s hair and clothes.

And it pissed him off. He narrowed his eyes and turned slightly, stepping in close to the man. “You don’t wanta do this,” he warned in a low voice. “I don’t have time to tell you all the ways it’ll end badly for you, so just trust me. You don’t wanta do this.”

The man swallowed hard and took a step back. “I only meant–”

Eliot crowded into him again. “I know what you meant. You thought you’d piss on my tree, show me who’s the top dog here. But I’m warnin’ you now – don’t fuck with me. I ain’t in the mood. And you wouldn’t give me a decent workout.”

The man stiffened and straightened, his professional pride clearly stung. “I can have five other agents in here in thirty seconds. And you’re not even armed.”

“Thirty seconds is a long time,” Eliot said. “A lifetime.” He arched his brows and bobbed his head in a small nod. “ _Your_ lifetime.” He brushed a hand over the front of the man’s jacket, able to feel the shoulder holster beneath. “At this range, a gun’s a disadvantage. You’d have to push me away to reach for it, and, frankly, I don’t like to be pushed. I could snap your neck before you got your arm up, take your gun and be out of those windows before your buddies knew what happened.”

The man blanched and swallowed visibly. “Your file says you don’t use guns–”

“But it doesn’t say I _can’t_ use ’em, does it?” he pointed out reasonably. “Ask Conrad what he knows about a warehouse in D.C. Hell, ask Moreau.” He dropped his hand and stepped back. “Now go tell Enzo I’m ready for my makeover.”

The man left with far more haste than dignity, slamming the door behind him. As soon as he was alone, Eliot exhaled unsteadily and made his way on shaky legs to the nearby worktable, slumping over and leaning heavily upon it.

Jesus, he couldn’t do this. He needed time, needed space, needed everybody – Damien, Conrad, Conrad’s men, hell, _Nate_ – to just back the hell off while he tried to find his way through this. Just being near Damien was dredging up too many dark things in him, forcing him back into places he’d sworn he’d never go again, and it was hard enough trying to keep that under control _without_ having to deal with a bunch of CIA agents who were overly impressed with their government training.

Conrad needed to have a serious talk with his men, or the CIA would be carving some new stars into its memorial wall for fallen agents. 

The door opened behind him but he didn’t lift his head, just closed his eyes and braced himself for this next assault on his tattered self-control. “Enzo, right?” he greeted resignedly.

“Really, Eliot,” answered a sweet and mildly amused voice. “I’m good, but if you think I could pass for an Enzo, you should put on your glasses.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


By the time anyone realized she was gone, Parker had cased two thirds of the villa’s second floor. After finding where the CIA intended her to sleep, she moved her suitcase into Hardison’s room. Nate had said they had to play nice, but he’d also said that didn’t mean they needed to do everything the spies wanted them to do.

Eliot’s intended bedroom was in between Nate’s and Moreau’s. Parker was tempted to move his things as well, but she understood that part of the job meant Eliot needed to get close to Moreau again.

_You’re not that man anymore._

_He might have to be._

She took comfort from the fact that Nate didn’t like Eliot becoming ‘that man’ any more than the rest of them did. _Of course he doesn’t know about the secret plan,_ she remembered as she swept Eliot’s room for bugs. The app Hardison had installed on her phone was automatically transmitting what it found back to him, so he could take care of things for everybody.

Thinking of Hardison made her stomach twist again. She felt like she wasn’t being a very good girlfriend, because she didn’t know how to make him feel better. Sophie and Eliot had both told her to give him time, but neither of them could tell her how much time he was likely to need.

And Hardison’s problems meant that she had nobody to talk to about the CIA’s plans for her. _“They have something they want you to steal,”_ Nate had confirmed, but he had no idea what it was or where. _“Conrad said it was a job for the world’s greatest thief.”_ Right or wrong, good or bad, she couldn’t help being intrigued by the possibility of a job like that.

When she came out of Eliot’s room, she saw Hardison coming towards her. “Nate sent me to ‘find’ you,” he said, his fingers sketching air quotes around the word. “Good job, by the way – those CIA boys freaked right the heck out when they realized you’d gone.”

Parker smiled tentatively at the praise. Hardison sobered immediately, recognizing her hesitation. “What’s wrong? You’re not going to be in trouble or anything; Nate’s got it handled.” He reached out to touch her cheek, and froze when she flinched. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Her cheeks ached with how hard she was suddenly trying not to cry. “You’re scaring me,” she admitted, feeling very small and fragile. “You’re angry, and you’re not talking, and you’re _not Hardison_ , and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when you’re not Hardison.” The words came tumbling out of her in a rush – much more than she’d intended to say – but worrying about him was distracting her from doing what Nate had said she needed to do.

She was already braced for him to turn away, when the hacker sighed. “C’mere.” Parker let herself be drawn into the circle of his arms; one of his special hugs, where she usually felt warm and safe and everything about the world made sense. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing his cheek to her hair. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do either. Everything I would normally do to help us get out of this, the government boys have already thought of. And as long as they’ve got their guns pointed at Nana …”

Before he could give voice to that fear, they were interrupted by a small cough. Parker pulled free of Hardison’s embrace to see that Damien Moreau had come upon them in the corridor. “Forgive me for interrupting,” he said smoothly. Parker instinctively took a step back, half-hiding behind Hardison. Moreau’s eyes followed her movement, but his attention immediately shifted back to the hacker. “Director Conrad’s little briefing is over, Mr. Hardison, and I wondered if you and I might talk privately for a few minutes?”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“Really, Eliot,” answered a sweet and mildly amused voice. “I’m good, but if you think I could pass for an Enzo, you should put on your glasses.” 

He spun around, both startled and relieved to see her. “Sophie!” he greeted fervently, only to realize by her worried expression just how on edge he must look and sound. He struggled to compose himself, running a hand through his hair and breathing slowly, then tried again. “I was expectin’ somebody else,” he explained, gratified to hear himself sound much calmer. “I figured by now you’d be havin’ wine and caviar with Damien.”

“Yes, well, as … appealing … as that sounds,” she said, her tone indicating she’d rather eat nails, “I thought I should help Conrad’s men look for Parker.”

“Parker?” he asked sharply, tensing in alarm. “What do you mean, ‘look for Parker’? Where the hell is she?”

Sophie frowned slightly and started slowly toward him, again looking worried. “Parker is _missing_ ,” she said with a none too subtle emphasis on the last word. “She disappeared while we were all downstairs talking. You know how she can get when she’s in a strange place,” she said, waving a hand airily, and managing to indicate an air vent, “before she’s had time to _acquaint_ herself with her surroundings.”

Her words and gestures triggered something in his brain, and comprehension kicked in. Right. Parker was carrying out Nate’s orders, casing the house for the layout and security. And _he_ seriously needed to focus.

“Well,” he said forcing a strained smile, “if she hasn’t turned up by dinnertime, I’ll whip up some fishsticks and mac and cheese. That usually brings her out of hiding.”

Sophie arched an elegant brow. “Do you honestly believe they have _fishsticks_ in this place?”

He chuckled wryly and shook his head. “Yeah, I guess not. Hell,” his smile faded as a sudden thought struck him, “they probably won’t even let me cook.” A sharp pang of loss knifed through him at that realization. He’d need something to keep him sane during all this, and cooking had ever been his surest refuge. “Probably wouldn’t trust me not to poison ’em all. I can’t say they’d be wrong,” he sighed, turning away from her and wandering over to one of the over-stuffed chairs, then dropping wearily down into it.

Maybe Nate could get him access to the kitchen … 

Sophie wandered over to one of the suit racks and began browsing through it, fingering the fabrics and studying the cuts with knowledgeable – and appreciative – eyes. “Is Enzo the tailor?” she asked, holding out the arm of one jacket, then shaking her head and pushing it back.

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighed. “Figures Damien would wheedle an Italian one out of them.”

“He’s very good, whoever he is,” she said approvingly. “This one, I think.” She picked out a dark gray jacket and turned, holding it up for him to see. “The charcoal will suit your coloring, and a blue shirt with it would bring out your eyes.”

“Whatever,” he sighed, slumping back in his chair and closing his eyes.

“Eliot–”

“I ever tell you why I hate to wear suits?” he asked, knowing if anyone could understand this, she would, and that if anyone could help him get through this, it would be her.

“No.” She put the jacket back and crossed the room to join him, sinking gracefully down into the chair nearest him and crossing her shapely legs. “But I’ve always thought it a shame.” She smiled almost teasingly. “You wear them quite well.”

He winced. Damien had always thought so, too. “I’ve worn two uniforms in my life,” he breathed. “One was for the U.S. Army. I wore it proudly, even when some of the stuff I did was, well, nothin’ they show in recruiting videos. But that uniform _meant_ somethin’. And wearin’ it made me a better man.”

“Because you believed in what it stood for,” she said quietly. “And the other uniform?”

He opened his eyes and let his gaze drift to one of the suit racks. “Those,” he said flatly. “For Damien. It was a requirement. Even the drivers wore Armani. Italian suits, silk shirts, and ties that cost more each than most folks’ mortgage payments.” He chuckled quietly. “Hell, you should’ve heard the fight we had when he first mentioned the tie. We had hardened killers huntin’ for cover. But he won.” His smile faded and he shook his head. “He always won. I put on the suits, wore the damn ties … and became the prettiest killer on his payroll. I even had certain suits I wore when I was … enforcing.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. “Couldn’t risk gettin’ blood on the good stuff, y’know?”

“Eliot–”

“Puttin’ on that uniform made me a _worse_ man,” he said. “It made me a _monster_.” He exhaled heavily and sat up, but couldn’t quite meet her eyes. Wasn’t sure he could bear what he might see in them. “I let go of everything I’d been taught was good and right and decent, and I did it for _him_ ,” he said in a low, rough voice, the shame of it still an open wound inside him. “I suffocated my conscience and sold my soul. I did things that no man should ever do, I became what no man should ever _be_.” His gaze tracked back to the suit rack, and for a moment he felt almost sick. “And I did it all while wearin’ one of those. I was his good little soldier.”

She was silent for long moments, then got up and moved to his chair, sitting on the rolled arm. Without a word, she reached out and drew him to her, cradling him against her. Unable to help himself, he wound his arms around her and clung tightly, burying his face in her warmth and softness and just breathing her in while he shook uncontrollably.

“I lost myself once, Soph,” he rasped thickly. “I don’t want to do it again. I _can’t_. There’s just not that much of me left!”

“Of course there is!” she whispered, curling around him to shelter him with her body. “There’s so much more than you know!” She held him and stroked him, rubbed his back and stroked his hair, let him have whatever of her strength he needed.

And he loved her desperately for it.

“Listen to me,” she said quietly, firmly, never loosening her hold on him. “The trick of being a grifter is to not lose yourself in the part. You have to convince the mark without buying into the lie yourself. That suit was your uniform once, but now it’s your costume. This time, use it to _your_ advantage, not his. Think of it as camouflage. Use it to make him see only what _you_ want him to see.”

“I don’t know–”

“Eliot.” She pushed him away slightly and stared intently down at him, her deep, dark eyes snaring and holding his. “Two years ago in that park, I said you’re not that man any more. You’re not. I believed it then, and I believe it now. We all have pasts, but we don’t have to be slaves to them. Isn’t that what we’ve all learned from each other?” She cupped a hand to his face, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “You are _not_ that man any more. I have faith in you. Enough faith to stake my life, my _family_ , on you.”

He stared up at her, letting her words sink through him, letting the certainty in her eyes take root in him. Maybe some of Damien’s poison lingered in him, but these people were the surest antidote he knew.

_My family …_

“Nate’s a lucky bastard,” he breathed before he could catch himself, and immediately wished he could call the words back.

But she only smiled delightedly and spread her hands. “Right?” Her smile turned sly and she winked. “But feel free to remind him. Sometimes he’s a bit thick.”

He laughed aloud, feeling much of the tension within him easing. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted as the door behind them abruptly flew open. They both shot to their feet and turned, and something twisted inside Eliot when he saw Parker, pale and as near panic as she ever came, framed in the doorway.

“Hardison’s in alone with Moreau.”

And every bit of Eliot’s tension came roaring back with a vengeance.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Hardison was fast gaining an all new appreciation for Eliot.

After just a few minutes with Moreau, he could almost _feel_ the man dissecting him, probing for any and all weaknesses, gauging every gesture, every flicker of his eyes, every hesitation in his speech, reading him as he would have read a string of computer code. Moreau was witty and charming and gracious, though the warmth of his manner was utterly belied by the cool, shrewd intelligence of his sharp, unreadable gaze.

That Eliot had somehow managed to walk away from this man with as much of himself intact as he had only deepened Hardison’s respect for him.

“I hope you don’t harbor any ill feelings about your little misadventure in the pool that day in Washington,” Moreau said, standing by a very well-stocked bar in what he had called his “study” and pouring himself a drink. “But I needed to be certain we were negotiating in good faith – which, of course, _you_ were not,” he added pointedly, gesturing toward Hardison with his glass, “though I had no idea of that at the time.” He gave an elegant shrug. “I simply wished to insure that we all knew what was at stake.”

“So you tried to drown me,” Hardison said grimly, a flare of anger going through him at the memory. He could almost taste the chlorinated water now.

“No, no, you wouldn’t have drowned,” Moreau countered. “Eliot wouldn’t have allowed it. At the time, I was counting merely on his loyalty to a client to make him see reason. Now,” he smiled, “I realize he had an even stronger incentive in his friendship for you.”

“You used me to get him to agree to kill Atherton for you,” Hardison said, still clearly able to see Eliot’s torment as he’d stood before them in a sunlit park, his soul ripped open and bleeding. And this man had done that.

“One uses the tools at one’s disposal,” Moreau said easily. He gestured toward the bar. “Can I get you a drink? And, please, don’t say you prefer beer.”

“Orange soda, actually,” Hardison said without thinking, then clamped his mouth shut and swore silently.

“Orange soda?” Moreau repeated in amused surprise, dark brows arching. “Well, that’s … original. I’m sorry I don’t have any to offer you.” He crossed the thickly carpeted floor silently and sank into the leather chair behind the expansive mahogany desk like a king claiming his throne. He sat back and studied Hardison intently, his hazel eyes giving away nothing. “I must admit,” he said at last, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “your work in San Lorenzo was most impressive. Disastrously so, from my perspective, but impressive nonetheless.” He chuckled wryly and shook his head. “I can only imagine the kind of havoc you might wreak with _real_ motivation.”

Hardison narrowed his eyes and tried not to get sucked into any conversational traps. But between the danger facing Nana, the pressure from Conrad and too many days of almost no sleep, he was exhausted and nowhere near Moreau’s match in deviousness. He bitterly wished either Nate or Eliot, or even Sophie, were here to guide him.

“Hard to imagine any more real motivation than a gun at your head,” he said at last. “If you’da caught us, you woulda killed us. If we hadn’t gone after you, the Italian woulda done it. We kinda didn’t have a choice.”

A shadow crossed Moreau’s face. “Ah, yes, dear Elisabetta,” he sneered. “I hope the little bitch rots in hell.”

Hardison stiffened slightly and swallowed uneasily. “Is– is she … dead?” he asked softly, suddenly doubting that even prison would be able to shorten Moreau’s reach.

Moreau grimaced bitterly. “Not as far as I know. But one can always hope.”

Hardison swallowed again and licked his lips, curling his hands into fists in his lap. This was the man who’d once held Eliot’s leash … 

“But let’s not talk about her,” Moreau said, his easy smile returning. “As you said, a threat to one’s life does produce results. I myself have had great success with that particular tactic. But what I have found,” he leaned forward in his chair and folded his arms upon the desk, speaking in a hushed and conspiratorial tone, “is that a threat to a loved one – say, a beloved foster mother – is _far_ more effective in the long run. Our own lives might be negotiable. The lives of those we love are not. Yes?”

Hardison went very cold and very still, almost forgetting how to breathe. Moreau’s eyes were fixed upon him like a snake’s on the rat that would be its supper, and for a moment he could have sworn he heard a rattler’s tail buzzing in his ears.

_Moreau knew._

He knew about Nana, about what Conrad had done to get the team to agree to this–

_How the hell did he know?_

“It’s a terrible thing,” Moreau sighed, shaking his head slowly and sitting back in his chair, something that looked astonishingly like sympathy crossing his face. “Using the woman who raised you as … _leverage_ … a woman whose only crime is taking in children, refugees from a war that your own government started– Even for your CIA, that’s monstrous.”

“How did you know that?” Hardison asked, unable to hold back the question. “You were still in prison when they set that up, and I can’t imagine Conrad sharin’ that kind of information with you–”

“Please,” Moreau snorted, “he wouldn’t tell me anything he didn’t absolutely have to. Fortunately,” he winked and smiled slyly, “there are always other sources.” He shrugged. “And I am a man who believes in cultivating sources.” He smiled slightly, with no warmth or humor in it. “It’s always been a talent of mine.”

Hardison’s stomach twisted sickly. They’d all been wrong. Moreau wasn’t broken, hadn’t lost everything. Somehow, the man still had resources.

_How in the hell did the man still have resources?_

“I just wanted you to know,” Moreau went on, looking and sounding completely sincere, “that I am sorry for what Conrad has done to your … Nana, is it? It’s utterly reprehensible. I come from a country that has known war, and I remember the children who suffered. I also remember the kind strangers, many of them Americans like your Nana, who took those children out of their suffering and gave them homes. If there is anything I can do to help,” he smirked, “from my own greatly reduced circumstances, of course, please, let me know.” His smile blossomed into full, chilling life. “It’s the least I can do for those who are here to help me.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“How is that possible?” Nate asked in sharp disbelief.

They were gathered in the tailor’s room, which Parker’s scan had shown to be bug-free, trying to process Hardison’s bombshell about Moreau. Nate was pacing, his energy manic. Hardison was seated in one of the chairs and typing at his computer, Parker sitting as close to him as she could manage, and Sophie was dutifully keeping Enzo busy across the room with a discussion in Italian about fashion. Eliot stood before one of the large windows overlooking the courtyard, his head bowed and his arms crossed, his mind working furiously.

The bastard had won again.

“We got information on Moreau’s accounts when we took down Vector,” Nate said. “The FBI got more when they talked to Atherton. And Vittori’s people hit the motherload in San Lorenzo.” He stopped pacing and turned to Hardison. “What did we miss?”

“Nothin’,” the hacker answered, staring at his computer screen. “Look, after we took down Moreau, every law enforcement agency in the world tore through his accounts. It was a feeding frenzy of forensic accountants. Anything, and I mean _anything_ , that even _mentioned_ the name Damien Moreau got frozen and confiscated by _somebody_. The man shouldn’t have a penny left to his name.”

Eliot lifted his head sharply at that. “His name,” he muttered, an old memory suddenly surfacing. “That’s how he did it.”

Nate turned to stare at him. “What do you mean?”

Eliot strode quickly to where Hardison was seated. “Everybody was lookin’ for accounts associated with the name Damien Moreau, right?”

Hardison frowned deeply. “Well, yeah. That’s kinda who everybody was after. Even his wife’s accounts were frozen until she appealed–”

“And he’d know that,” Eliot breathed, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of this before now. “He’d prepare for it. Hell, he’s probably been stashin’ money all along. He’s too smart not to have a backup.”

Nate exhaled sharply. “Eliot, what are you talking about? Stashing money _where_? All of Moreau’s accounts were seized–”

“Exactly.” He looked up at Nate. “ _Damien Moreau’s_ accounts were seized. But he wasn’t always Damien Moreau.” He smiled slightly at the understanding dawning in Nate’s eyes. “He was born Damijan Marulic.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Realization hit Hardison like a freight train, and for a moment he was convinced he really was going to be sick. _This is what he was trying to tell me. Moreau wanted me to know this._ It opened up all kinds of terrifying possibilities.

_I am a man who believes in cultivating sources._

_If there is anything I can do to help._

For one horrible moment Hardison questioned his impulse to confess everything to Nate and the team so quickly. Moreau’s resources were real – they were something that Hardison could get his hands on, now that he had a name and a place to look. _Moreau’s been gettin’ around our people for years, hell he’s still gettin’ around ’em. Nate’s making it up as he goes along._

“That’s how he gets you.”

Hardison flinched, looking up into Eliot’s knowing gaze. “Eliot, man, I …”

The hitter shook his head, but his expression was raw and sympathetic. “Don’t. The next words out of your mouth are going to be that you weren’t just thinking about the offer he made you.” He paused. “He did make you an offer, right? Promised that he’d help you with Nana’s situation, get you free of the CIA’s hold on you?”

Hardison could feel the weight of all their gazes focused on him. “Hardison,” Nate said, and the anger in the mastermind’s voice was worse than a physical blow.

“Not in so many words, okay?” The chair he’d been sitting in clattered across the hardwood floor and nearly tipped over as he leaped to his feet and put some physical distance between himself and the rest of the team. “We talked, that’s all. I came straight back and I told y’all everything he said. If I was seriously thinkin’ of throwing in with him, why would I’ve said anything?”

“He’s got a point,” Parker said tremulously. “Hardison knows what kind of a monster Moreau is. He wouldn’t betray us.” She edged closer to Hardison. For his part, Hardison tried not to pull away from her. On some level he was deeply grateful for Parker’s unquestioning support, but his conscience wouldn’t let him forget that Eliot had just pretty completely busted him on what he was _thinking._

“Signora, enough!” Enzo’s protests shattered the heavy silence that had fallen between the others. “I appreciate your insight, but I have too much work to do on this man as it is.” Hardison watched the fussy little tailor stalk back towards Eliot, Sophie hard on his heels. “Signor Spencer, ’scuzi. We must get to business, as you Americans say.” His tone was apologetic, but his gestures were furiously intense – allowing for no argument. Hardison watched Eliot and Nate exchange a look and once again as he’d done hundreds of times before, Nate dismissed the hitter with a tired nod.

“Nate,” Hardison said, drawing the mastermind’s attention. “I didn’t. I _wouldn’t._ ”

It hurt that Nate didn’t answer him right away, but he had to admit the man was justified. “You thought about it though,” he said finally.

Thoroughly busted and feeling miserable about the whole thing, Hardison nodded.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	6. Work The Job

“Parker, Sophie, you both have work to do,” Nate said. “Everybody needs to stay focused; we bunch up for too long and Conrad’s going to think we’re up to something.” His heart was literally aching as he studied Hardison. He hated having to jerk him up so sharply, but the very thing that made the hacker unequalled in the world at what he could do was precisely what made him their weakest link in a situation like this.

Sophie gripped his shoulder, drawing his attention. “Go easy,” she cautioned.

He leaned in and kissed her, drawing what strength and balance he could from the feel of her lips against his. “You be careful,” he warned, looking deep into her eyes. “You know I don’t deserve you, right?”

She smiled at him then, but there was none of her usual humor in it. “No, you probably don’t,” she agreed. “Lucky for you, I’m a soft touch.”

When the women were gone, Nate focused his attention on his hacker again. “I just need to know one thing,” he said, discarding the idea of moving the conversation some place more private. Eliot had clearly been thinking along the same lines he had when it came to Hardison, and the hitter’s insight would be useful later. “Do you trust us to fix things for your foster mother?”

“I do, Nate,” he said, hanging his head – unable to meet Nate’s eyes for a long moment. “I only thought about Moreau’s offer for a second, I _swear_.” He looked up, and Nate nearly flinched back from the emotion in his dark eyes. “I wasn’t even sure it was a bona fide thing when he first started talking about it, I just thought he was tryin’ to be friends.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And then Eliot gets all spooky with his mind reading business – Nate I swear, I had _just_ put the pieces together when he called me out.”

A knot in his gut loosened slightly as Nate realized he believed Hardison. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay. We’ll write this one off as a learning experience.” _And it’s useful having some idea that he’s targeting Hardison and how._ Unless of course the move was a feint – intended to throw Nate off his game.

“You have to be on your guard,” he said, forcibly setting his circular reasoning about Damien Moreau aside until later. “Moreau’s way isn’t a path you walk and come back whole.” Somehow they both kept from looking at Eliot, even though the hitter was a textbook example of everything he wanted Hardison to avoid.

Before the hacker could say anything else in his own defense, Nate’s phone buzzed for his attention. Frowning, he called up the text hoping something else hadn’t gone sideways.

_In country. Belgium 1992._

A spark of hope flared into life inside him. “We need to go over the embassy layout,” Nate said, looking up at Hardison. “I’m also going to need you to go over Conrad’s intel on the security we’ll be facing – see what holes need plugging.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“If Enzo managed this, I’m impressed.” By Sophie’s estimation, the walk-in closet attached to the spacious bedroom contained somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cutting edge evening wear. _All in my size too – oh that’s not a bit creepy._

“The red. It will make the right statement, and the cut will flatter your shape.”

Sophie turned slowly, not letting Moreau see that he’d startled her. “Where I come from, Mr. Moreau,” she said, “gentlemen knock.” Annie’s tone, accent and cadence came smoothly to hand.

His smile was cold and perfect. “Where I come from as well … Annie.” He was the picture of studied nonchalance as he came further into the room, closing the door behind him. “I thought that we should spend some time together without Ford and the others around. If we are to present as a partnership to my Iranian friend tomorrow evening, we should be as … comfortable … with each other as possible.” He met her eyes, and touched the wound on the side of his neck significantly.

“Looking for an apology, are you?” she asked, lifting her chin slightly. “You’d think less of me if I backed down.”

“Not at all,” Moreau countered. “I’m looking for a way off this leash – and I imagine you are too.” He took a few more casual steps, closing the distance between them, then gestured at the two comfortable chairs that comprised the room’s “sitting area”. “Please. There’s no reason we can’t come to an understanding about this.”

Sophie couldn’t remember ever wanting anything less, but she had no reasonable argument at hand. “What did you have in mind?” Moreau waited for her to sit before taking his own chair.

“You will need a veil,” he said. “If Enzo hasn’t already provided one, we will need to speak to him – Majid isn’t so conservative that he will expect your face to be covered, but you can’t be too Western in either your dress or your manner. It will put him off.”

Sophie nodded. It was useful information that could only make the evening go more smoothly. “Director Conrad mentioned there might be competition for these trade routes,” she said, trying to draw him out about any other potential obstacles they might be facing.

He smiled. “That can’t scare you, Annie – not with your background. The Kroys prefer to handle things up close and personal from what I understand.” He paused, sobering. “But yes, it’s safe to assume that there are rivals. Nature abhors a vacuum – isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Are we talking about the kind of rivals that would try something on embassy property?” she asked, trying to prompt him to continue talking. Moreau was a “fiddly” sort of puzzle, as Parker would say, and Sophie kept having to shove her own fear of the man aside so she could see her way in as clearly as possible.

Moreau considered her question for longer than she would have assumed necessary, then smiled wryly and gave a slight shrug. “Anything is possible in this part of the world,” he said. “We are playing a dangerous game for very high stakes. But I will insist that Eliot go in with us as my bodyguard, and I have every faith in his ability to protect us.” He reached across the gap separating them and took her hand. “Of course once we are safely over the border into Iran a great many more possibilities open up for us.” His gaze roamed appreciatively over her body now, and Sophie felt her skin flush with an answering heat. “I could use a woman like you at my side. Someone … flexible.”

“You referenced leashes,” Sophie said as his eyes met hers. “I don’t fancy Conrad choking me with mine.”

“I could have him killed for you.” Moreau tugged on her hand, and Sophie allowed herself to be drawn to her feet. He stood as well, pulling her in closer than she would have ordinarily gone. “If you could make me believe it would be worth my while.”

Sophie laughed, but there was no mistaking the hitch in her breath as it caught in her throat. _Oh God …_ “Those are bold words, Mr. Moreau, but right now you’re on a tighter leash than any of us.”

He cupped her cheek with his free hand, and Sophie reacted unconsciously, leaning slightly into his touch. “But by that point I will have Eliot – and he will do whatever I need.” Leaning in, he kissed her almost chastely on the lips.

“Make certain you tell Nate Ford that, won’t you?”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


They’d been a month tailing an obscure Rembrandt across Europe. Nothing but whispers, rumors and half-truths until Sterling had uncovered a promising lead in the form of one Dylan Jamart – a Belgian businessman who had acquired several rare paintings through the legitimate market in the previous ten years, but who was also supposed to be somewhat flexible in how he made his acquisitions.

The kitchen staff had been their way in. Sterling had agreed to go undercover, while Nate worked the case from the outside. They’d typically met midnights in back of the house to compare notes, using the delivery entrance for their comings and goings. That door hadn’t been as well protected as this one was, but back in those days Nate hadn’t had the world’s greatest hacker backing his plays.

“Hello, Nate.”

Sterling glanced up significantly at the camera covering the door. Nate snorted softly, but stepped off the path into the camera’s blind spot. He trusted Hardison’s skills, but without the comms there was no point in taking chances. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Seriously.”

“I was tempted to just jail the lot of them when they contacted me,” Sterling retorted. “Seems like I might have done you a favor if I had.”

“It wouldn’t have solved the problem,” Nate admitted. “And I don’t even know if you could have held them under the circumstances.”

Sterling inclined his head, conceding the point. “My thoughts exactly. I’m not sure I want to know how you ended up under the CIA’s thumb, but if what you’ve told me so far is true you definitely have my attention.”

Nate felt something in his chest ease as he began bringing his former partner up to speed. Interpol wouldn’t go at the CIA directly, but they had the motivation to keep Damien Moreau and the United States from establishing control over nuclear arms trade and development in the Middle East, and they had the authority to enforce their wishes.

All Nate had to do was convince Sterling to arrange things so that he and the team could slip away safely in the aftermath.

“Always thought that Patriot Act was rubbish,” Sterling commented, once Nate was finished filling him in. “Elderly foster mother, war orphans – that’ll play though. I have several contacts who can take that public.”

“Hardison will be grateful,” Nate said. Sterling grinned.

“You just make sure he knows my generous spirit doesn’t come free.” He paused. “As far as the rest of it goes, until Moreau and Shahriari make contact, I don’t have enough hard evidence to move on.” He passed something across to Nate. “It’s clean, but we’ll use it for texting only; nothing detailed. I’ll get myself into the embassy, but you make sure to keep feeding me everything you can.”

Nate took the phone and slipped it into his pocket. “Never figured I’d be in the position to owe you like this again,” he admitted.

Something of the Sterling he’d once called friend was visible in the other man’s expression as he shrugged. “Yes, well – the same applies to you, thief. My generous spirit doesn’t come free.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“What’re you working on?”

Hardison didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad one that Parker didn’t startle him when she all but materialized at his shoulder. “Checking into some stuff for Nate,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and rest it on his shoulder. “Going over the plan for tomorrow night.”

“Worrying about Nana?” she asked.

Momentarily overcome, he reached up and covered her hand with his own. “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding quickly once he could trust himself to speak. “It’s harder now that I can’t call her when I need to, but …”

Parker crouched at his side, maneuvering so she was looking up at him. “I got you a present.” She held up a small USB drive.

Hardison couldn’t help smiling. “A bored Parker is a dangerous Parker.” He took the drive and set it next to his monitor.

“Nate told me to get it for you,” she said. “I hope I got the right files, but he said you’d know what to do when …” She broke off with a small squeak of surprise as Hardison dragged her up into his lap. Winding his arms around her neck, he pulled her close and kissed her.

“I don’t like it when everybody’s mad at you,” she admitted when he finally let her up for air. “You’d never sell us out, would you?”

Carding his fingers through her bright hair, Hardison shook his head without hesitation. “Man caught me off guard, that’s all. Parker, I _swear_.” He sighed. “I don’t know how Eliot put it all behind him though – I really don’t.”

“I don’t think he has,” Parker replied.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Eliot stood before the mirror and stared at his reflection, feeling a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. He’d like to have thought he was looking at a stranger, but he wasn’t. He knew this man, knew him intimately, had once lost himself in him. He’d thought he’d buried him years ago, just one more body hidden along the way, but he was alive and well, waking from his long sleep and staring out at him through his own eyes.

Damien’s man.

God knew he looked the part. He wore the charcoal suit Sophie had favored – a “rush job,” Enzo had declared apologetically, even though one of his “rush jobs” would still fit perfectly on any catwalk in Milan – and a deep red ( _blood red_ , his old self whispered in his mind) shirt with a dark gray silk tie finely striped with the same red as the shirt. And on his feet, in place of his scuffed heavy boots, were soft black Italian shoes. Prada, Enzo had announced proudly. The little tailor had beamed at him, clearly enormously pleased with his success in transforming the unkempt ruffian who’d been thrust upon him into the model of classic couture reflected in that glass.

But Enzo hadn’t been the only one working on him. A fussy young man who had chattered non-stop the whole time had washed, cut and styled his hair while an accomplice – assistant – had trimmed and buffed his nails. His hair was shorter than it had been in years, though not quite as short as he’d worn it _then_ , trimmed around his face and over his ears but still with enough length in back that it curled just above the collar of his shirt. He’d been surprised by that until the stylist had said it had been Damien’s idea.

_The white hat really doesn’t suit you. But I love the hair._

His skin crawled at the memory.

“Now that is more like it.”

It took everything he had not to jump as Damien’s voice sounded behind him. In the next moment the man appeared in the mirror, and Eliot gazed at his reflection without turning around, and without entirely meeting his eyes. _Medusa_ , something warned illogically in his brain.

Just now, though, Damien seemed to radiate pleasure rather than menace. He moved closer, stopping just behind Eliot and studying him in the mirror. “Much more professional, don’t you think?” he asked, smiling easily. Just as he’d done years ago when Eliot had shed yet another piece of himself to fit into his expectations. “The standards I set for those in my employ are well known. Now everyone will believe you are my man.”

The knot in Eliot’s gut tightened at those words, the very same ones Nate had spoken earlier. _My man._ He was caught in a tug of war between the two of them, and the entire team’s safety depended on him _not_ snapping in half. He only hoped he could hold himself together long enough to get them all out and end this, once and for all.

He drew a deep breath and lifted his gaze to meet Damien’s in the mirror. “Three-thousand dollar suits could never hide what we were,” he said quietly. “You could dress us up like fashion models all you wanted, we were still just thugs and killers.”

Damien laughed and shook his head. “Please,” he chided amiably. “The three-thousand dollar suits were for the drivers. Yours cost so much more than that.”

“Yeah, they did,” Eliot breathed, remembering exactly what wearing those suits had cost him.

“It’s a shame Chapman isn’t here to see this,” Damien said lightly, still studying Eliot in the mirror. Still smiling. “He did so enjoy your battles with the tailors.” He chuckled again. “He once said that putting you in fine wool and silk was like giving a manicure to a pit bull – no amount of polish could disguise what you really were.” His smile faded. “I still miss him sometimes,” he said, though not a trace of sorrow sounded in his voice or lurked in his eyes.

“Then you shouldn’t have sent him to kill me,” Eliot suggested. “I always was better than him.”

“Yes, I suppose you were,” Damien agreed. “But I had to send someone. You betrayed me. _Again._ I couldn’t very well just let that pass.” He grimaced and shook his head. “Think of the precedent it would set. I let you go once.” He shrugged. “I simply couldn’t do it again. I had to make an example of you.”

Eliot turned slowly away from the mirror to face him. “And how’d that work out for ya?” he asked coldly.

Damien laughed in delight at the jibe. “Ah, _this_ is what I have missed! No one has ever dared speak to me the way you do. They are all so worried about upsetting me, of arousing my wrath–” He reached out and set a strong hand on Eliot’s shoulder, and something very like affection shone in his eyes. “But you had no fear. You were always honest with me. And you were never afraid to challenge me when you thought it was needed. Tell me,” he lifted two elegant brows, “ does your Mr. Ford appreciate that quality in you?”

Eliot’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll as a warning sounded in his brain. He and Nate had been in perfect agreement that Damien’s preferred strategy would be divide-and-conquer, but time had softened Eliot’s memories of how very good at it he was. First he’d gotten to Hardison and managed to create a small niggle of doubt about the hacker’s loyalty in their minds, now Damien would drive a wedge between Eliot and Nate. The bastard knew him well enough to understand that his loyalty also came with blunt honesty, and had to know enough about Nate to realize that he didn’t like being challenged, _especially_ when he needed it most. 

_You know, you talk too much. You oughta just go skip some rope._

_Eliot, why don’t you just take the rest of the job off._

He and Nate had clashed frequently over the years, their friendship and mutual respect often tempered with an underlying friction. But he’d always seen it as one of his responsibilities to call Nate on his bullshit, to hold him accountable for those times when his obsessiveness or loss of focus put the rest of them in danger. And, no, Nate didn’t like it one damn bit.

But in his own twisted way, he _did_ appreciate it.

Just as Damien once had.

“Jesus, the two of you are more alike than you know,” he breathed tiredly, shaking his head slowly. He shrugged off Damien’s hand and turned away, putting a few steps between them; between himself and the man in the mirror. “I’m not sure what it says about me that I threw in with him after I walked away from you, but it can’t be good. Probably means I’m as fucked up as Parker.”

“Parker?” Damien repeated in momentary confusion. “Ah, yes, the little blonde thief.” A note of avarice sounded in his voice. “Such remarkable gifts. I read up on her in prison – well,” he chuckled, “I studied all of you. I had to do _something_ to pass the time. She is … quite fascinating.”

A chill rippled down Eliot’s spine and he turned around sharply, every protective instinct on alert. “ _Don’t_ ,” he warned in a low growl, stalking back to Damien and staring up into his “former master’s” eyes. “Whatever web you’re spinnin’ in that brain of yours, leave her out of it. And Hardison, too. Hell, leave ’em _all_ out of it. I get it – you’re pissed at what we did to you and you want revenge. Fine. If you wanta punish somebody, punish _me_ , and leave the rest of them alone!”

Damien arched a brow. “And why only you?”

“Because they just wanted to bring you down and give you to the Italian.” A faint, predatory smile curved about Eliot’s mouth. “I was lookin’ for a way to kill you.”

If the words angered Damien or took him by surprise, he gave no sign of it. Indeed, he actually seemed amused by them, chuckling quietly and nodding. “Direct, as always,” he said with wry appreciation. “I suppose I should be grateful that Ford’s method won out over yours, knowing what I do of your skills.”

Eliot shrugged. “Time ran out on me,” he admitted. “You comin’ to Washington to auction off your bomb forced our hand.” He smiled thinly. “But I was getting’ close. A few more weeks, and I would’ve had my shot.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Damien said, looking remarkably unfazed by Eliot’s words. “You always were very thorough, and very efficient.” His smile faded altogether, and a faint glimmer of anger shone in his eyes. “As you reminded me with that … exhibition … in the warehouse. That was most impressive. _Especially_ for a man who walked away from me because he said he’d had his fill of killing.”

Eliot shrugged again, his eyes never leaving Damien’s. “You didn’t give me any choice. You set us up, sent men to kill me, to kill Nate. Did you think I’d just lay down and die? Let _Nate_ die?”

“No, I suppose not,” Damien said. “Still,” he frowned slightly, thoughtfully, “I can’t help but wonder what these … people … of yours thought about that. You killed at least a dozen of my men – with their own guns, no less – and walked away. After setting fire to that warehouse and leaving their bodies to burn.” He chuckled softly and reached out, running a hand down the lapel of Eliot’s jacket and straightening his tie. “So ruthless,” he purred. “So cold and complete in your vengeance. Just like the man who once dispatched my enemies for me. Does your little family of thieves know what they harbor in their midst?”

Eliot jerked back from Damien’s touch and turned away from the man, away from his mocking smile and eyes that had ever been able to look into and unlock the worst parts of him. _The rest of the team, they don’t need to know what I did._ And as far as he knew, they _didn’t_ know; not the specifics, anyway. Whatever Hardison, Parker and Sophie suspected, they’d had the good grace to keep those suspicions to themselves. Parker and Sophie hadn’t asked, and for once Hardison had repressed his need to hack into security cams and law enforcement databases to find answers. Maybe they didn’t _want_ to know.

Or … maybe they just didn’t care. Maybe they already knew what was important to them, and the specifics of a certain killing rampage wouldn’t change that.

He seized on that thought and clutched it tightly to him, letting it seep through and comfort him. Strengthen him.

He drew a deep breath and turned back to Damien, lifting his head and meeting the man’s eyes evenly. He knew he’d probably given away _too_ much of just what the team meant to him, could almost see the calculations spinning through Damien’s brain, but it didn’t really matter. His feelings for them were, in a very real tactical sense, a liability, and no one knew how to exploit liabilities like Damien Moreau. But Damien also knew _him_ , knew his capabilities better than almost anyone else alive, knew exactly to what lengths he’d go to protect and defend what was his, knew just how much of the world Eliot Spencer was capable of burning when someone, _anyone_ , fucked with him.

Let the bastard calculate _that_.

Damien folded his arms across his chest and canted his head slightly to one side, still staring intensely. Eliot only barely suppressed a shiver from the weight and force of that gaze, and once again had to shove down that dark _thing_ inside him struggling to rise in response.

Then Damien smiled faintly, and when he spoke his voice held an odd tone of warmth. “So protective,” he murmured. “I remember that well.” His smile grew wider, but it never reached his eyes. “Always the shadow at my right hand, the weapon merely waiting for me to aim it.” He gave a small chuckle. “I always suspected that when the men before me trembled, it was more in fear of you than me.” He unfolded one arm and reached out to run a hand over the shoulder of Eliot’s jacket, then lifted it to brush back a stray lock of hair that had fallen across Eliot’s eyes. “So pretty to look upon,” he purred. “But so deadly. Mars in all his beauty, wreaking devastation with a smile. How I have missed that smile!”

Eliot could no longer suppress his shudder. Damien was so close, his breath and touch warm and intimate, his eyes piercing straight through to Eliot’s soul, seeking those pieces that still belonged to him. He remembered this, remembered the power wrapping around and claiming him, enticing him, seducing him, unmaking and remaking him one little piece at a time. He remembered the promises whispered in that supple voice, the secrets lurking in those hazel eyes just waiting to be shared, remembered the purpose offered to a lost and drifting soldier desperately in need of a flag to follow.

He remembered _all_ of it. And he was afraid.

Damien chuckled again, then dropped his hand and stepped back, regarding Eliot with a smile and an unmistakable warmth. “So,” he said, “we have the meeting with Majid at the embassy tomorrow night. Director Conrad, naturally, has said he will oversee security, but I don’t trust him.” He winked. “As you and your team have discovered, he is not particularly bothered by any ‘sacrifices’ he might have to make to further his own agenda. And, as an Iranian nationalist, Majid, naturally, has little love for the CIA and would react badly to any hint of Conrad’s involvement. I do not think we want him … spooked?” He chuckled at his own pun. “So you will take over. I will insist, and Conrad will have no choice but to agree. Also,” his smile took on a vaguely cruel edge, “you will act as my personal bodyguard for he evening. My guardian angel spreading your sheltering wings over me and the lovely Miss Kroy.”

Eliot snapped out of his daze. Something in Damien’s voice when he mentioned Annie – Sophie – set off another warning in his brain, and he instinctively clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He remembered only too well Damien’s love of and hunger for beautiful women, particularly those with both intelligence and spirit. The man bored easily – the wife he’d married for her father’s business and political connections but then routinely supplanted with a string of mistresses over the years was proof of that – and he craved women who would challenge him in wit as well as in the bed.

Sophie was just that kind of woman, and Eliot had encouraged her to play that up.

Damien glanced at his watch. “Dinner is in twenty minutes,” he said. “I look forward to getting to know all of you better. Sharing a meal is sharing life, no? Then after that,” he grinned broadly, clearly eager to begin whatever reconquest of the world he was planning, “we can get down to business. We shall discuss the meeting tomorrow night, I will tell you what you need to know about Majid, and you can begin your preparations for security.” He laughed and clapped Eliot firmly on the shoulder. “It will be just like old times, eh?”

Eliot’s stomach did a slow, sick turn as he felt the warmth and strength of Damien’s grip and saw the excitement on his face, the light in his eyes. “Yeah, like old times,” he managed to rasp.

And it scared him more than he could say.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Dinner was a truly lavish affair, with a mixture of both Western and traditional Pakistani dishes served in generous portions. The aromas of beef and lamb mingled with those of cinnamon, cloves and curry, rice dishes yielded savory bites of vegetables and potatoes, and flatbreads were topped by sesame seeds or stuffed with candied fruits. Throughout the meal, in a distinctly Western touch, wine flowed like water.

And Damien Moreau presided over it all with wit and charm, like a father-figure basking in the warmth of his family. If, Eliot thought, that family happened to be the Borgias.

Damien had even dictated the seating arrangement. He put himself at the head of the table, with Sophie at his left, Parker next to her, then Hardison, and Conrad at the far end. Eliot sat at Damien’s right, with Nate next to him. Damien had insisted Sophie sit next to him that they might “perfect the illusion of partnership we are expected to present,” but Eliot knew better. Damien wasn’t interested in any “illusion” at all. He wanted Sophie, both for his own purposes and pleasures and as a means of taking revenge on Nate.

Nor was _his_ placement any accident. In the past, he’d always sat at Damien’s right, as both guardian and first lieutenant. Anyone seeking to speak with Damien at table had to go through him first; any news or information was presented to him for his judgment as to whether it merited Damien’s attention. His ultimate purpose, though, was to throw himself between Damien and any threat that might materialize, to shield Damien from harm and to die in his place if need be. Putting him back in that position was a not so subtle effort on Damien’s part to remind him of those days, of all that he’d shared with and done for Damien, and, no doubt, to remind Eliot’s “new family” of exactly what, as Damien had said earlier, they harbored in their midst.

Nate’s seating had been no accident either. He was at Eliot’s left, putting Eliot squarely between him and Damien, making _that_ nasty little ploy plain to all, but was also at a remove from Sophie, taking him out of her immediate communication range and forcing him to watch from that distance as Damien sought to draw her closer to him. It was petty, but Eliot recalled with some grim amusement that for all his silken manners and airs of elegance and enlightenment, Damien Moreau was at heart a street fighter, capable of all the petty vindictiveness of a dark alley thug.

Hardison had originally been seated next to Sophie, evidence of Damien’s continuing interest in the hacker, with Parker at the end of the table next to Conrad. Still concerned about the younger man’s vulnerability, Eliot had tried to figure out how to challenge the arrangement without further piquing Damien’s interest in Hardison, but Sophie had intervened instead, and with a smoothness that reminded Eliot of exactly why she was who she was.

“I think, perhaps,” she had said in a low voice, moving closer to Damien as if to share a secret with him, “that putting Parker next to Director Conrad might not be such a good idea.” They’d been standing at the bar, while Damien mixed her a pre-dinner cocktail, and she had his full attention. “She holds him directly responsible for all of this, particularly for his threat against Hardison’s foster mother, and, well,” she had smiled wryly up him, dark eyes utterly sincere, “she’s been known to have … impulse control issues. Often involving forks.”

Damien’s eyebrows had shot to his hairline as he’d gaped at her in astonishment. “She _stabs_ people?” he’d asked incredulously. “With _forks_?”

Sophie had shrugged elegantly, still faintly smiling. “Or with whatever else might be at hand. Though her preferred weapon is her taser.”

Damien had almost choked. “Her t– She carries a _taser_?” He’d looked over Sophie’s shoulder to where Parker had stood near a large window … glaring openly at Conrad. And while the dress Enzo had provided for her left little room to conceal a taser, a knife – or fork – wasn’t at all out of the question. He’d looked back to Sophie then, clearly at a loss.

Sophie, however, was never at a loss. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t look good for any of us if Director Conrad were assaulted at dinner,” she’d said, her full red lips pursing into a soft and thoughtful frown that had drawn Damien’s appreciative – and covetous – gaze. In a moment, though, her expression had cleared and she’d smiled up at him. “Perhaps we could simply switch her seat,” she’d suggested. “Put Hardison in her place next to the director, and Parker in his place next to me, between the two of us. That way, we might be able to control her somewhat.” If Damien had noticed her hand lightly brushing against his arm at the word “control,” he’d never shown it.

Eliot, however, _had_ noticed, and had silently saluted his queen with his glass.

So now Parker was seated at Sophie’s right, well within Sophie’s reach should the little thief make any untoward move, and Hardison was at Parker’s right, comfortably out of Damien’s immediate influence. And Eliot decided that if they all got out of this alive, he would personally take Sophie to Paris or Milan and buy her whatever the hell she wanted.

Damien seemed to be entertaining similar plans. “Tell me, Annie,” he said, smoothly interrupting Conrad, who had been updating them on the current political situation in Iran, sounding as dry as a CIA fact book, “have you ever been to Tehran? It is a beautiful city, both ancient and modern, and I would delight in showing it to you.”

Sophie smiled coyly. “I’ve been once or twice. As you can no doubt imagine,” her dark eyes gleamed, “I’m rather an … admirer … of their art galleries and the imperial crown jewels.” She sighed, her smile softening. “I never tire of visiting the Darya-i-Noor diamond,” she breathed, absently rubbing her fingertips together as if they itched.

“I could get it for you,” Parker said easily, tearing apart a piece of flatbread to get at the candied fruit inside. “It’s part of the Treasury of National Jewels, which is in the Central Bank of the Islamic Republic of Iran. The security is tight, but not impossible. All we’d have to do–”

“Parker,” Nate said firmly, looking at the thief and lifting his brows, “no jewel heists in Tehran. We’ll have enough on our plates as it is.”

She deflated and tore apart another piece of bread. “Fine,” she sulked. “But I was just thinking of Sophie.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Parker,” Sophie said, smiling fondly at the younger woman and patting her hand. “Perhaps another time, when we’re not on so tight a schedule.”

Parker beamed, and Eliot groaned and bowed his head. “Sophie,” he growled, “don’t encourage the crazy.” He lifted his head to glare at her. “The mullahs get pissed when people steal from ’em.”

Parker looked at him, frowning thoughtfully. “Don’t you have a dagger you stole from them?” she asked. “You said you took it when they stiffed you on a job.”

“That’s different!” he shot back. “When you hire a man to do a job, you pay the price you agreed on. You don’t go changin’ the terms when everything’s done. That’s not how you do business.”

“Ah, yes,” Damien said with a quiet chuckle, lifting his wine and sipping from it. “You always did have the strangest set of principles.” He chuckled again and shook his head, setting his glass down, then turned to Sophie. “Of all the things he did for me,” he reminisced, “I could never get him to lie. It was most … endearing. Frustrating, but endearing. Still, I suppose that was what made him so effective. When I sent him,” he shifted his gaze to Eliot, “men knew the time for prevarication had passed. Eliot was, one might say, my final arbiter of truth.”

Eliot bowed his head and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering only too clearly what form that “arbitration” had usually taken. People _had_ known Damien was finished negotiating, finished arguing, finished talking when he’d shown up. He’d never had to lie. Men had read the truth – and their deaths – in his eyes.

He was startled to feel Nate’s hand grip his arm and squeeze lightly under the table. That touch centered him, reassured him. _They knew._ They knew, but they didn’t care. Because over the years they’d discovered _other_ truths about him, and those mattered more. He looked up and dared a small nod at Nate, the only real communication they’d ever needed. Somehow it had always been the words that had tripped them up. And only when he’d let himself relax did Nate remove his hand.

“This is all very nice,” Conrad said with an edge of irritation, clearly able to see control of this – and them – slipping out of his grasp, “but we do have a job to discuss. We’re not here to wax nostalgic over jewel heists and assassinations.” He stared down the table at Damien. “I need to know that you can get us access to Majid, and Iran’s nuclear program. If you can’t, well–” He smiled thinly. “I broke you out of prison. I can put you back.”

Damien sat back in his chair and smiled, looking utterly unconcerned. “And how, exactly, has your government explained that little jailbreak to your new friends in San Lorenzo?” he asked. “It can’t have gone well.” His smile faded. “I assure you, President Vittori and Minister Flores are men of deep and sincere principle. And they are rather pathetically devoted to their little rock of a nation. They will not appreciate being violated by the United States, no matter how many flags you wrap around your explanation.”

Conrad smiled thinly. “Soothing their hurt feelings isn’t my concern,” he said. “That’s the job of the State Department.”

Nate stiffened slightly and looked up sharply, and Eliot recognized the signs of a thought springing into the man’s nimble mind.

“So,” Nate Leaned forward and stared down the table at Conrad, “just how far out on the limb have you gone here? Obviously, the State Department doesn’t know about your little game, or you would never have been allowed to proceed. But I’d be willing to bet that none of the other national security or intelligence agencies do either.” The fork in Conrad’s hand seemed to waver ever so slightly as the man waged an almost imperceptible but just visible battle not to give anything away. But Nate was Nate, the man who saw mental processes the way Hardison did computer code, and he smiled slightly, another piece of the puzzle falling into place. “You’re completely off book here, aren’t you?” he prodded, his gaze never leaving Conrad. “You have no official sanction from anyone. If this thing blows up, you’re going down as a rogue agent, with the CIA supplying the rope and the president himself fixing the noose around your neck.”

Conrad was silent for long moments, then shrugged. “It’s a risk we all take,” he said, then shot a knowing look at Eliot. “Spencer knows that. We all get orders that come from nowhere, and we all do things that no one authorized. We’re ghosts, we operate in a world made of shadows. And when an inconvenient light pierces those shadows,” he shrugged again, “well, somebody has to pay. ‘Mistakes were made, heads will roll, houses will be cleaned.’ It’ll be a few weeks of manufactured outrage on Fox and CNN, probably a Congressional hearing with all the appropriate groveling and hand-wringing, and then it’s back to business as usual. And the next man takes his place out on that limb. All for God, flag and country. And,” his lips twitched in a smirk, “a hefty but completely off-the-books pension.”

Eliot snorted. “I never got that pension,” he muttered, spearing a piece of lamb with his fork. “All I got was ‘the thanks of a grateful nation,’ a reminder that my ass would be grass if that nation ever found out what I’d done and an escort out through the back door in the middle of the night.”

Conrad smirked again. “You were the weapon. Weapons are a dime a dozen. It’s the men willing to call the shots who are valuable.”

“But it’s the poor bastards who _take_ the shots who come home with nightmares,” Eliot spat, tossing his fork to his plate with a loud _clink_. “Or come home in flag-draped coffins with some made-up story because nobody can ever know how they _really_ died.”

Conrad eyed him steadily. “Casualties are a part of every war, you know that,” he said easily. “Sacrifices have to be made. Every soldier accepts that.”

“And those who _aren’t_ soldiers?” Eliot pressed. “Hell, what about Hardison’s Nana? You set her up to take the fall for somethin’ she doesn’t know anything about. If this goes south, she’ll likely end up in prison, her kids will be taken away and put God knows where, we’ll be killed, Majid will be executed and Iran and the U.S. will be staring at each other over the guns of their navies! People will die, _innocent_ people, but _you’ll_ be livin’ it up in a villa somewhere, writin’ your memoirs and watchin’ all that money pile up in your account in the Caymans.” 

He shoved his chair back abruptly and shot to his feet, unable to take any more. He knew only too well how this scenario played out, had seen it, lived it, too many times, and was sickened by the thought of his team caught in that nightmare. “If it does go wrong, you better make sure I don’t survive,” he growled, spearing Conrad with a hard, unforgiving stare. “Because if I do, you’ll never see that pension. Hell, you’ll never see _me_. And you’ll be goin’ back to Langley in pieces.” He tossed his napkin onto the table and turned on his heel, stalking out of the dining room.

“Really, Mr. Ford,” he heard Damien say with a sardonic humor as he left, “you’ve let his table manners deteriorate unforgivably.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	7. We Do The Things They Can't

Parker had no idea how _she_ ended up being the one to go after Eliot, except that no one else seemed in a hurry to do it. Moreau had looked like he might have wanted to, but Sophie had distracted him and now the two were smiling and talking like old friends, Sophie’s hand occasionally even brushing his. Parker hoped Sophie was at least trying to steal Moreau’s watch; otherwise … ew.

Hardison was just staring down into his plate like he expected his dinner to try and kill him, while Nate was staring at Conrad and probably trying some evil mind trick on him. Parker hoped he gave Conrad a nosebleed with his mind like he’d done to Eddie Maranjian. It would serve the bastard right.

But that left only her to go after Eliot, though she had no idea what she was supposed to say to him when she caught him. Which she did quickly, because he didn’t go far, only through what Sophie had called the ballroom and then out onto the terrace. He didn’t even leave anybody bleeding on the floor in his wake.

As escapes went, it kind of sucked.

“Did Nate send you?” Eliot asked without turning around as she stepped out onto the terrace.

She wasn’t entirely surprised that he knew he’d been followed, or that it was her. At his most relaxed, Eliot knew where everyone was at all times. Put him in a house with armed guards, Damien Moreau and a threat to people he loved, and he probably knew where everyone in the _country_ was.

Besides, she probably had a very distinctive … something.

“No,” she answered, moving forward to join him at the railing. “Nate’s too busy trying to give Conrad brain cancer or something.”

He turned his head to stare at her, frowning slightly. “Nate can’t give anybody brain cancer.”

“He gave a guy a nosebleed,” she reminded him.

His frown deepened. “That’s not– Never mind,” he sighed, turning his head away again and staring out at nothing. Or at whatever he saw out in the darkness beyond the reach of the lights. 

Sometimes she thought Eliot was more used to darkness than he was to light. The team had been changing that, but sometimes – like now – the darkness came back and tried to reclaim him. He’d fight it, he always fought it, but not even Eliot could fight forever.

And the darkness was patient.

“Tell me what to do,” she said quietly, moving closer to him, their shoulders just touching. That was something the team had taught _her_ , that sometimes the warmth and contact of another person mattered. She still wasn’t always good at it, but she was trying. And no one should fight the darkness alone. “I can take Conrad and you can take Moreau, or I can take Moreau if that would be too hard for you, and you can have Conrad. We can end this tonight and be out of here before morning–”

“No, we can’t,” he said, sounding tired and sad and … _tired_. “Conrad’s not an idiot, and he’s done this kind of thing before. He’ll have orders in place. Protocols, they’re called. Hit teams for us, federal prison for Nana. She’ll be charged with facilitating terrorism– We’re stuck,” he breathed.

She refused to believe they could be so helpless. “We’ve done impossible things before,” she insisted stubbornly. “We could make Nana disappear, give her a new identity. You could call Quinn, or Mykel, or both. And Hardison could get Chaos–”

“And what about the kids?” he asked quietly, turning back to face her. “How do we make all those kids disappear? Some of ’em might still have families, brothers and sisters in other homes, maybe aunts and uncles trying to work through the system to get ’em. Or parents trying to turn their lives around so they can get ’em back. What do we do about all those people?”

Parker shook her head and dropped her gaze to the railing, absently fingering the patterns in the wrought iron. “I don’t know,” she said softly, utterly at a loss. “I just– I don’t like that we’re trapped. I don’t like that we’re being forced to do this. Bad things happen when we’re forced.” She risked a glance up at him. “The Italian forced us to go after Moreau, and that nearly broke you. I don’t want any of us to get broken again.”

He met her gaze and held it, his eyes serious. “Then we have to protect them,” he said quietly. “You and me. We’re the only ones who can. Whatever else happens, we have to be sure that they get out. Nothin’ else matters. Right?”

She stared at him, and for a moment, they were back in the ice cave again, just the two of them, she trying desperately to figure out how to do the right thing and he calmly telling her that sometimes for people like them there _wasn’t_ a right thing, only a necessary thing.

And that that was okay.

She nodded slightly. “Nothing else matters,” she said softly, making the words a vow.

He smiled faintly and turned his face again toward the darkness. But his shoulder still brushed hers. “You didn’t eat much besides the bread,” he said. “You didn’t like the food?”

She wrinkled her nose, thinking of the dishes with exotic names and unfamiliar smells. “It was weird. I don’t like weird food.”

She could have sworn she heard him chuckle, and was warmed by the sound. As long as Eliot could laugh, they were all still okay. “I make weird food for you all the time.”

“But you explain what it is,” she reminded him. “And sometimes you tell stories about where it comes from or where you learned to cook it. Your stories make it not weird.” She scowled. “But nobody explained any of that stuff. It was just there. And it was weird.”

“But you liked the bread with the fruit.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bread is bread. And the fruit was candied. Candy is _never_ weird.”

He snorted and hung his head, shaking it. “There’s somethin’ wrong with you.”

Without thinking, she moved closer to him. “But that’s okay, right?”

He chuckled again and slipped an arm around her, and she felt something in herself relax. They were two of the most dangerous people she knew, and probably two of the most fucked up, both capable of destroying large swaths of the world and whistling while it burned. But right now, for just these few moments, she thought she could see the darkness retreating before them.

“Yeah, darlin’,” he breathed in his low, warm voice. “It’s just fine.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


When they went back inside, the others were leaving the dining room and starting toward the room Hardison had claimed and equipped as his “ops center.” It didn’t escape Eliot’s attention that Sophie was walking with Damien, who seemed to be hanging on every word she spoke, and it left him deeply conflicted. On the one hand, if Damien truly was smitten with her, it could only help them. But on the other, that was _Damien Moreau_ , and everything in Eliot screamed at him to keep the man as far from Sophie, from any of them, as possible. When he glanced at Nate, he saw the mastermind watching the “couple” with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, and his unease only deepened.

Christ, they didn’t need Nate’s jealousy complicating things … 

Then Nate’s gaze shifted to him, and with it the man’s concern. He could read the question in Nate’s eyes and nodded slightly, assuring him that he was all right. Or as close to it as he got these days.

“Conrad’s nose isn’t bleeding,” Parker said in a too-loud whisper, which, naturally, everyone heard. Eliot had to fight from smiling at the disappointment in her voice, and at the startled look Conrad shot her. It was nice to see something getting under the director’s skin. And it figured that it would be Parker.

Hardison came up to them and stopped, reaching out to take Parker’s hand but looking at Eliot. “You all right, man?” he asked, dark eyes filled with worry. “You didn’t look none too happy when you left.” He swept his gaze between the two of them. “Any bodies out on the lawn we need to get rid of?”

Eliot did smile at that, and shook his head. “Everybody’s still alive. And conscious,” he added before Hardison could rephrase his question. “I just needed to get away from Conrad before I decided to test the throwing balance of one of those knives on the table.” He studied Hardison closely. “How you holdin’ up?”

The hacker smiled weakly and shrugged, but Eliot saw his hand tightening about Parker’s. “I’m … okay,” he said, sounding almost convincing. “I don’t like this, but it is what it is. And if this is our only chance,” he shrugged again, “we gotta take it, and gotta make it work. And,” he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, “I gotta stop worryin’ so much about Nana and start concentratin’ more on the job.”

Eliot felt a deep sympathy for the younger man. All their lives were on the line, but that was nothing new. Hardison, however, stood to lose so much more. “Look,” he said quietly, forcing both Hardison and Parker to step closer to hear him, “I know some guys I can call to keep an eye on her. Discreetly and from a distance, but they’re good and I trust ’em. You make sure my phone’s secure, and I’ll call ’em tonight.”

Hardison stared at him for long moments, looking as if he’d been pole-axed. Then he swallowed hard and nodded faintly, his eyes looking suspiciously wet. “Yeah,” he rasped thickly, “I’d– I’d appreciate that, man. I– You–” His voice broke and he swallowed again, his eyes definitely wet. He took a step closer still, a small, slow smile breaking through.

And Eliot knew where this was headed. “Don’t,” he warned gruffly, stepping back. “You hug me and I’ll break you in half. Or have Parker stab you with that fork she stole from the table.”

Parker looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I can’t stab Hardison!” she huffed indignantly. “It’s _Wednesday_.” She snorted and rolled her eyes, then walked away to join the others.

Hardison stared after her, looking as if his synapses were frying. “She can’t stab me … because it’s _Wednesday_?” he repeated dazedly. “Shouldn’t there be – I don’t know – some _other_ reason?”

“Dude, it’s Parker,” Eliot said, torn between pity for and amusement at the younger man. Anyone who loved Parker was in for a bumpy and bizarre ride. “Just be glad there’s _one_ day she won’t stab you.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“Dr. Majid Shahriari,” Hardison said, pressing a button on his remote and bringing an image of a Middle Eastern man in his mid- to late 40s or early 50s onto the large screen. “Iran’s premier nuclear physicist. Born and raised in the city of Qom, got his bachelor’s in physics from Isfahan University of Technology – one of Iran’s most prestigious science and engineering schools – and his master’s and doctorates in nuclear and particle physics from MIT. He’s got a couple other PhD.’s as well, but those two are the most relevant for his current day-job.”

“Which is?” Nate asked, sitting back in his chair and cradling a cup of coffee – probably doctored, Eliot guessed – as he stared at the screen.

“Well,” Hardison pressed a button and another image appeared on the screen, a satellite photo of a large power facility, “ _technically_ he’s in charge of Iran’s program to develop nuclear power for the country–”

“He’s the brains behind their effort to develop nuclear weapons,” Conrad interrupted. “He serves as Iran’s ‘liaison’ to the rest of the world’s nuclear scientific community, attending and giving lectures on nuclear power. But that’s only his cover. His real job is to make contact with sources who can provide the materials Iran needs to move its weapons program forward. He runs what amounts to an entire government division – though it doesn’t officially exist – and reports directly to the Supreme Leader.”

“So why is he still walking around?” Parker asked. “I thought I heard on one of those boring news shows Nate watches that Iran is our enemy or something. If you know so much about him, why can’t you just take him out–“

“Because they need him,” Eliot said from his vantage point by the door before Conrad could answer. He’d chosen his place almost without thinking. From here, he could see every angle of the room, and everyone in it, and cover the door itself while maintaining line of sight through the two large windows that overlooked the terrace. It was a mark of just how on edge he was, he realized, that he’d picked this position. “Iran’s gonna get nuclear power, and probably weapons. It’s only a matter of time. We can lecture and threaten all we want, but it’s gonna happen. So if we can’t stop it, we can at least try to control it. Let ’em have just enough so they can progress slowly, throw up some kind of roadblock to slow ’em down when they get too far along, make sure _we_ control the flow of materials so they’re not makin’ deals with terrorists. Also makes it easier for us to sabotage ’em if we control the pipeline. Right?” he asked, turning to stare at Conrad, who was looking back at him with mingled surprise and irritation.

Damien caught the look and chuckled. “It’s maddening when he does that, isn’t it?” he asked, clearly delighted to see the CIA man thrown off balance. “He allows everyone to get comfortable underestimating him, and then out of nowhere proves to be so much more than just muscle. Really, Director,” he chided gently, “you should do your homework. Always know the people you’re working with.”

“That’s rather ironic coming from the man who had his entire empire yanked out from under him by these people,” Conrad shot back. “Should’ve done _your_ homework, Moreau.”

Sophie largely ignored the men, letting them have their pissing match, and stared at the screen instead, trying to discern whatever she could from Majid’s photo. In it, he appeared relaxed, was smiling and clad in a fine suit. “He doesn’t look like a fanatic,” she mused.

“He’s not,” Damien said. “Majid went to school in the West and appreciates the finer aspects of Western culture. He is a devout Muslim, but not an extremist. His wife is a teacher and an author, and they are raising their daughters as independent, modern young women. But Majid _is_ a patriot. He may not always agree with his government, but he loves his country. And that is why the nuclear program is so important to him.”

Sophie turned from her scrutiny of the screen to Damien, fixing her attention upon him. Parker and Hardison also turned, and even Nate seemed more than politely interested. Eliot had to smile. This was Damien at his best – smooth, charming, intelligent, and able to command a room with almost no effort. Only Conrad seemed unimpressed.

Damien sat back in his chair and crossed his long legs, absently swirling his brandy around in the glass cradled in his hand. “To understand Majid,” he said, his gaze going back to the screen, “you must understand something of his country’s history. Iran is an ancient and proud nation, home to one of the world’s oldest civilizations. But since the Second World War, it has continually been plagued by interference from Russia, Great Britain … and the United States.” He slanted a stare at Conrad. “A familiar story, no?”

The CIA director glared back, but said nothing. Damien smirked and continued. “During the war, Britain and the Soviet Union thought Iran was too friendly toward Nazi Germany, so they forced Shah Reza Khan to abdicate in favor of his son, who became he infamous Shah Reza Pahlavi. Later, the US and Britain overthrew and arrested a popular prime minister who dared nationalize Iran’s oil industry.” He arched a brow at Conrad. “It always goes back to the oil, no?”

Conrad sighed and looked bored. “That was before my time.”

“Yes, but not before the time of the CIA,” Damien countered. “Your agency’s – and your country’s – fingerprints are all over Iran.” He turned back to Sophie. “The Shah became a tyrant, brutally crushing whoever dared speak out against him. Majid’s father was one such victim. He was a professor who led a protest against the Shah’s excesses, and he was arrested and tortured. He died in prison when Majid was ten. When the Islamic Revolution overthrew the shah and swept the Ayatollah Khomeini into power, Majid supported it wholeheartedly. Since then, he has grown somewhat disillusioned with what has taken place and has taken part in protests himself, but only because he is devoted to his country.” He shrugged. “He is tired of seeing Iran bullied by the West, and he fears Israel. He is simply trying to protect his country’s autonomy and ensure its survival.”

“And he believes having nuclear weapons will achieve that?” Sophie asked.

Damien shrugged again. “Why not? Israel has them. Pakistan has them. Why should Iran – which is far more stable than Pakistan – not have them? Majid has no desire to use the weapons,” he said. “But having seen what the United States has done to Iraq, and knowing what Israel wishes to do to Iran, he simply wants his country to be able to defend itself. And nuclear weapons, you must admit, make a very powerful deterrent.”

“So,” Nate said, leaning forward in his chair and staring down into his glass, “Majid is going to buy nuclear materials from the CIA, which is an arm of the very government his country considers an enemy. And the CIA broke you out of prison and is blackmailing us to sell those materials to a country our government has basically declared a rogue state. In our own ways,” he arched two brows, “we’re all committing treason. Is that right?”

Damien grinned and lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Welcome to politics, Mr. Ford. Where you and I are no longer the worst criminals in the room.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Nate couldn’t ever remember needing a drink more in his life. Letting Damien take control of the conversation had been a calculated risk – it allowed Nate to see how the man operated in a more intimate setting and gave him time to look for exploitable weaknesses. The problem was that this particular type of game was a two-way street; it opened Nate up to being influenced by Moreau in ways he wasn’t comfortable admitting to. Just because he understood what was happening didn’t necessarily make him immune.

The political discussion had been fascinating – when else was he going to be able to sit in a room and discuss world events with an international criminal and a member of the world’s most notorious spy factory – but at one point Nate had caught himself about to nod in agreement with something Moreau had said and his insides had gone cold.

 _Work the job._ The briefing was winding down; he needed to do what he could to cement Sophie’s and Eliot’s positions, and he still needed to get Conrad to tip his hand as to his plans for Parker. Left to her own devices the thief could unravel everything without even meaning to. 

“Director, Eliot will need to have access to all security you have planned for the party.” Moreau hadn’t risen from his seat, but he had full command of the room. “I’m sure your people are fine within their own little spheres of influence, but Eliot was my chief of security for many years. He knows what it takes to keep a man of my position safe; if Ms. Kroy and I are to be free to woo Majid as you expect I will need to know that everything is properly handled.”

Conrad’s face was actually turning red, and Nate didn’t have to manufacture his own scowl of disapproval. “Eliot,” he said, putting the edge in his voice that automatically drew the hitter’s full and complete attention.

Moreau raised an eyebrow at the exchange. “You see now what I told you?” he said to Eliot, rising smoothly to his feet. “You never slipped my hold – you only put new hands on your _leash_.” His mouth twisted on the last word, as if he’d tasted something foul. Nate saw Eliot flinch as Moreau put a hand on his shoulder, but the hitter managed not to pull away.

“Nate’s going to be running point,” he said, turning and deftly extricating himself from Moreau’s touch without drawing attention to the move. “I’ll need to review things with him as well.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Damien glanced at Nate, long enough for the mastermind to see a flash of unguarded emotion in Moreau’s hazel eyes. When his attention returned to Eliot, the indulgent – almost paternal – air was back. “Whatever you feel is necessary.” Stepping back, he glanced at Sophie. “Ms. Kroy, have you seen the gardens in back? They are truly lovely.” He held out a hand. Smiling warmly, Sophie pushed to her feet and came to him.

 _She’s the world’s greatest actress … when it’s an act._ Again, knowing that she was conning Moreau, and doing it flawlessly, didn’t stop Nate from wanting to call the man out. He held his position, though, as Sophie looped her arm around Moreau’s and the two of them headed for the door. “Director, if you need us Eliot will know where to find me.”

Silence fell across the room as soon as the door closed behind them. Conrad’s eyes met Nate’s. “Don’t.”

Nate raised his hands. “Wasn’t planning on it.” He paused. “Can I assume you’re going to agree to his demand?” He glanced quickly at Eliot, who had almost unconsciously come to attention.

“Unless you have a good reason why I shouldn’t,” Conrad snapped.

 _That would be a yes,_ Nate thought. Out loud he said, “Eliot is more than qualified. I did want to ask you about Parker though.” He saw the blond thief stiffen almost imperceptibly at the edge of his vision, but didn’t turn to acknowledge her. “You’ve made it clear that you have plans for her, but I’ll need her to make tomorrow night work.”

Confusion flashed across the CIA director’s face. “We won’t need Parker until the operation moves directly into Tehran. If you need her tomorrow night, she’s yours.” Looking at Eliot, he went on. “I assume you want to go over the embassy plans?”

Eliot was watching Nate, his eyes narrowed. Nate knew he’d given something away in the moment after Conrad had mentioned Tehran, but there was no reason to think anyone but his own people had seen it. “Can you give us a minute?” Eliot asked, shifting his own attention to Conrad. “Please?”

It spoke louder than any words about Eliot’s sudden rise in status that Conrad didn’t argue with him. “We’ll be downstairs in the library. You have ten minutes before I send somebody after you.”

Nate glanced at Hardison as soon as they were alone. The hacker glanced down at his smart phone – did something – then nodded at Nate. “We’re good.”

“What do you know?” Eliot asked, before Nate could say anything. “Conrad slipped. I saw it. You figured out what he wants Parker to do.”

Nate exhaled sharply, realizing that his hands were shaking. “It’s the only thing that makes all of this work.” He gestured around them. “Conrad being out on a limb with this operation isn’t a surprise in and of itself, but when you’re talking about nuclear materials, raping the sovereignty of a country like San Lorenzo, and using a batch of criminals to do your bidding you need a major payoff to make the risk worthwhile.”

Looking at each of his teammates in turn, Nate was suddenly keenly aware of Sophie’s absence. “He’s going to put Parker in a position to steal the Iranian government’s nuclear launch codes.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


It was difficult for Parker to emotionally connect with the looks of fear and concern she saw on everyone’s faces. Printed or digital, launch codes were information – and she’d successfully stolen information hundreds of times, even before she had Hardison to help ease her way in. “So if I steal these codes, this all goes away?”

“We’re way past the easy solutions,” Eliot snapped. Parker abruptly remembered their secret plan, and how the hitter was counting on her to back his play when he said.

Nate crossed his arms over his chest, looking frighteningly serious all of a sudden. “You need to go, Eliot, before Conrad misses you.”

Eliot looked to Parker as though he wanted to argue, but they all knew what it meant when Nate got that tone in his voice and that look in his eye. “Watch your back,” he cautioned the mastermind, before heading for the door.

After months of letting her believe that Nate was telepathic, Hardison had begun trying to convince her it was just one of those things that looked like more than it was. But Parker had seen more than her share of conversations where Nate looked at somebody, said their name, and suddenly they knew things Parker had never heard any of the team talk about openly.

Like now – Nate looked at Hardison, and the hacker immediately said, “I hope you know what you’re doin’ keeping this from him, Nate. He’s going to be plenty torqued when he finds out.” And if that wasn’t proof that a conversation had happened that Parker just couldn’t hear because Nate wasn’t using his powers on her at the moment, well … 

“We don’t have enough hard evidence yet,” Nate said. “Just suspicions, unless you got more out of those files than I think you did. Eliot’s already struggling just being here, playing the part I need him to play.” Nate exhaled sharply, and Parker could see how much this job was messing with him. “He’s not going to get as close to Moreau as he needs to, because he doesn’t trust that we’ll take him back when it’s all over.”

“That’s stupid,” Parker said, drawing both men’s attention. “Sophie said he’s not that kind of man anymore, and she’s not wrong about stuff like that.”

Hardison and Nate were quiet for too long – it made her stomach tighten painfully in knots. “Mama, you saw how just talking to Moreau messed with my head, right?” Parker nodded – she hadn’t liked seeing that at all. “Well it’s harder for Eliot because that’s the way he used to live. He bought into the whole business – Moreau said something was right, and Eliot couldn’t question him.”

That made sense to her – Parker remembered what Eliot had said to Hardison: _That’s how he gets you._ “Okay, so I get that. Why are we conning him? We don’t con members of our crew.” It was a rule, and it bothered her that Nate seemed to have forgotten that, because typically that was when things went very, very badly.

For everyone.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“I hope you don’t mind me taking you away from all that.” They were at the edge of the villa’s fairly expansive gardens; Moreau’s expression conveyed the perfect amount of concern, as if it had just occurred to him that she might not appreciate him presuming to speak for her.

The thing was – the pull to huddle with her people, her _family_ , right now was so strong it was like a physical ache deep in Sophie’s chest. She’d never tried to work a con this deep before or with this much at stake when she had so many people inside her heart. “It’s fine,” she said at last, Annie’s accent coming easily to her lips. “Truth be told, Mr. Moreau, I’m not one for the politics of an operation. I prefer to be straightforward in my dealings with people – cause, effect, profit and loss.”

Meeting his eyes in the dim light, Sophie took a deep breath, and let herself vanish into the part. All other cares and concerns, the ties that kept her from being at the top of her game, disappeared and she let them go without a backwards glance. “You mentioned earlier the possibility of slipping Director Conrad’s leash,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “The more time I spend here, the more I see that tying our fortunes together could lead in a very exciting direction.”

Moreau smiled at her. It was still a shade too indulgent for her comfort, but Sophie could tell he was warming to her. “What about your Nathan Ford?”

She made a dismissive noise. “Hardly _my_ Nathan Ford. And do not mistake me Mr. Moreau – my interest in allying with you is purely professional.”

The protest amused him, as she had known it would. “Is that so?” Cupping her cheek in his hand, Moreau leaned in and kissed her. The press of his lips against hers was soft, gentle – almost hesitant – and Sophie was startled by the small whimper that rose in her throat in response.

 _So much power …_ Reaching up, Sophie let her hand curl around the back of his neck, fingers toying with errant strands of his dark hair. When he kissed her again, she parted her lips with a soft moan, letting him trace the length of her tongue with his. Moreau’s hands tightened convulsively on her as he deepened their kiss; it was a tiny wobble in his iron control, but Sophie felt a thrill of triumph lance through her.

“ _Purely_ professional?” he asked, once he was finished kissing her. Sophie smiled self-consciously as he pulled back far enough for their eyes to meet again.

“Power is a hell of an aphrodisiac,” she admitted. “And even leashed and bound as you are right now, Mr. Moreau, you wield an incredible amount of it.”

His only outward response to her assessment was an almost silent chuckle, but Sophie could tell she had a connection to the man that hadn’t been there before. “I want very much to ask you back to my room, Annie,” he murmured, tracing the swell of her lower lip with the pad of his thumb, “but it feels as though the timing is not … opportune.”

“I suspect we might both want more out of this than just a casual affair,” Sophie agreed. “Too much rides on tomorrow for us to allow ourselves to be distracted.”

Moreau’s smile was mellow and warm. Sophie felt it drawing her in, and she forced herself not to resist. “Then perhaps I should leave the decision to you,” he mused. “Should I escort you back to your room and bid you good night? As you say, we have a very busy day tomorrow, and I should probably meet with Eliot before I turn in myself.”

The sensible thing to do was take the out. Moreau had made the offer, and there were plenty of reasons on the table for her to say yes – retreat to her room, catch her breath, and come at the challenge Damien Moreau was starting to represent fresh in the morning. Sophie would have done it.

Annie, on the other hand … “Mr. Moreau,” she said, turning so that she could slip her arm through his, “I believe you promised me a turn through the gardens.” She leaned into him, enjoying the feel of his body reacting to her presence. “And I have to admit I like the idea of us daring fate and temptation like this.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	8. You Make Me Forget Myself

“You look like hell.”

Nate was too tired to respond to Sterling’s assessment of his condition. _Besides, if I look like I feel at this point, he’s not wrong._ “Hardison has control of Conrad’s system.” He passed over the thumb drive Parker had pulled together. “Assuming you’re okay on physically getting into the embassy, this should give you enough to get started on putting a case together. Obviously with Sophie and Eliot already in position I have no leverage to get the rest of us any closer to the action.”

Sterling held the tiny drive up between two fingers. It was a matte black, and reflected none of the minimal illumination that surrounded them. “Are you sure about Hardison having control of a CIA..?” His voice trailed off at the look Nate gave him. “Never mind. Stupid question.” He closed his fist around the drive and slipped it into a pocket. “Nate, I can get you out of this right now. Tonight. Please, come with me.”

It was the same double edge sword he danced with every time he and Sterling tried to work together. “We all walk away, Sterling. That’s the deal. All of us – I’m not leaving them at Conrad’s mercy.” A tiny knot of panic bloomed in his gut. “I can’t leave Sophie and Eliot in Moreau’s clutches. You said you’d help me!”

He only belatedly realized his voice had risen when he saw the flash of annoyance in Sterling’s eyes. “Calm down. We’ve already put things in play to extract the Bushnell woman and her children from their situation. And regardless what happens in the next twenty-four hours, Moreau and Conrad are going to be arrested for what they’ve put into play here.”

“I’m not leaving my people, Jim,” Nate said, feeling his resolve grow more solid with each passing moment. “If that means you arrest the lot of us fine – I definitely trust your people more than I trust Conrad – but we stand or fall together.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Sophie felt as though she were floating. It was the easiest thing in the world to let Moreau lead her by the hand through the halls of the villa towards their rooms. The walk through the gardens had been head-spinningly romantic, with the moon overhead and dozens of stolen kisses and gentle, affectionate touches. If she was any judge, Damien Moreau was wooing Annie Kroy with everything he had, and since the plan meant she needed to let him there was no way she could keep from being affected by it.

“Annie …” Moreau had stopped in front of her bedroom door, and was looking at her with a smoldering heat in his eyes. Sophie let him pull her in close, turning her face up so he could kiss her. It was slow, deep and passionate, and she tasted the brandy he’d drunk with dinner as his tongue slid against hers.

“I know I shouldn’t,” he murmured, tracing the curve of her cheek with his thumb, “I know we talked and I know I shouldn’t, but I desperately want to ask permission to come inside with you.”

Sophie felt a thrill of fear shiver through her as she caught herself just shy of saying the words. Being a grifter was about finding the mark’s deepest desire and then giving it to him, and here and now in this moment every instinct she had was telling her that Damien Moreau’s deepest desire was her. It was a rush that was hard to ignore. “We talked about this,” she said instead, once she could trust herself to speak. “Once tomorrow is behind us …”

She felt him trembling as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I know. You make me forget myself, Annie. It is not good.”

“Luckily for you, Mr. Moreau,” she countered with a soft brightness, “I never take my eye off the ball.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Acid did a slow crawl through Eliot’s gut as he listened to Sophie and Damien banter and flirt. He had faith in Sophie’s ability to navigate her way through the minefield of Damien’s intentions, but he’d also watched Moreau work his will on dozens of potential lovers – male and female – and this looked as real as anything he’d ever seen.

 _You can’t have her,_ he thought fiercely, unable to look away as Sophie said her good nights and disappeared into her bedroom. He could live with losing her to Nate.

Not to Damien.

“Old habits die hard,” Damien said, turning to face where he was lurking. “Isn’t that the saying?” He was obviously pleased to find Eliot watching him – there was no point in the hitter arguing his real motivation.

“Is our CIA friend happy?” he asked, when Eliot didn’t immediately rise to the bait. “Walk with me.”

He turned and headed in the direction of the library; Eliot fell into step automatically. “Conrad is as happy as he’s likely to ever get,” Eliot reported, keeping his voice down until they were clear of the bedroom wing. “We reviewed security and procedures for tomorrow night – everything looks fine.”

Eliot saw Damien scowl at the edge of his vision. “My patience for your sloppiness is wearing thin, my friend.” There was the low rumble of a threat in the statement.

“Embassy security is state of the art,” Eliot said, feeling his spine stiffen and his walk grow more properly military. “I have some concerns about the guest list, but Conrad has put you in under the alias I gave him. Meeting with Shahriari should be low key enough to keep you out of the line of sight of any potential trouble – I’ll handle anyone who might happen to notice you and feel you’re worth pursuing.”

They reached the sitting room together. Moreau didn’t stop walking until he reached the bar; Eliot automatically took up a position that let him continue facing Damien, but also gave him a view of the door in the mirror over the bar. “They will allow you your guns inside the embassy, yes?”

“I won’t need my guns.” The protest was automatic – the words left his lips before he had a chance to think. Damien paused in the middle of pouring himself a brandy and glared. “Yes,” Eliot capitulated, feeling another bit of his autonomy shrivel and flake away. “As your bodyguard, I will have dispensation to carry.”

Moreau exhaled sharply, and then tossed off the contents of his glass in a single swallow. “Good. Now it is time to discuss what is really going to happen tomorrow night, and what you and I are going to do about it.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“We’re not supposed to con each other.”

Swallowing his first instinct, Hardison closed his eyes and reached out towards Parker. After a moment, cool fingers intertwined with his. He squeezed Parker’s hand reassuringly, and pulled her towards him. “Nate’s not conning Eliot, Parker. Not really. Eliot’s having a hard enough time – Nate’s just trying to arrange things so his reactions are as believable as possible.”

Parker turned, perching on the edge of his desk. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.” She reached out and stroked his hair with her free hand; Hardison tried very hard not to give into the urge to shut his brain off and lose himself in her. “You also look really tired.”

That startled a smile out of him. “I am,” he admitted, bringing the hand he was holding up to his lips and kissing her knuckles. “Nate’s sure Conrad or Moreau is going to be telling Eliot the full story tonight – as soon as he goes to spill his guts to Nate I’ll need to tighten everything up and get it to Sterling.”

The thief still looked troubled. “Too many secrets. Eliot and Sophie aren’t talking to us, we’re not talking to them. It feels like everything’s blowing apart.”

Hardison smiled as reassuringly as he could manage. “I know it feels that way Parker, but that’s not what’s going on at all. Each of us has a job to do and once Nate puts all the pieces together everything’s going to be okay again.”

She ducked her head for a second, and when she looked up at him again Hardison realized that Eliot and Sophie weren’t the only ones keeping secrets. “So it’s okay that I’ve got stuff I’ve been doing that I haven’t told you about?”

The hacker had a moment where it was all he could do not to seek Nate out and unleash all his frustration on the mastermind. The others rarely asked or cared about the details of what he did in the course of a job. Hardison understood that their disinterest was largely rooted in the fact that Nate was the only one who even came close to understanding what it was that he did.

He wasn’t used to being the one kept in the dark. And certainly not by Parker. Still, he’d been telling her the truth when he said there was a reason Nate was keeping them somewhat isolated from each other on this job, so he would have been the worst sort of hypocrite if he changed direction on her now.

He only belatedly realized that Parker was still waiting for his response. “It’s fine, Parker,” he said, urging her into his lap. “Whatever Nate or whoever’s got you doing, it’s gonna help Nana, right?” After she nodded he went on, “Then how can I be mad at you?”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


It had been far too long since Damien Moreau had stood at this moment – on the verge of seeing a long, difficult game turn in his favor. The thrill was almost sexual as he stood across from Eliot – watching his most valued second take his final steps back to where he was always meant to be. “One of those names on the list that troubles you. Asfar Shiruyeh, am I correct?”

Eliot had finally relaxed onto one of the leather-covered stools, but Damien’s question brought him upright again. “What do you know?”

Moreau poured himself another glass of the brandy. “Shiruyeh is the warlord the CIA believes to be my primary competition for Majid’s connections. I believe he has staked the best claim to the routes I abandoned when your … mastermind … turned me over to the San Lorenzo police force.”

He watched Eliot as the man digested this new information – connecting the right dots and drawing all the proper conclusions – and it was all he could to not to smile. _There you are, my old friend._

“It makes sense,” Eliot admitted finally. “Conrad would have had to assume you’d be challenged; he’s looking for me to make sure you come out on top.”

Damien allowed himself the indulgence of a genuine smile then, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement as he sipped at his brandy. Eliot’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So what’s the real play?” he asked. “Even putting me between you and Shiruyeh and trusting that I’ll do my part to keep you breathing, this all seems a little … passive … for you.”

“Simple.” Damien set his glass down and looked directly into Eliot’s eyes. “Asfar will attack me during the party. He won’t be able to resist – he knows that given a choice between the two of us, Majid will give his support to me. He will attack, you will kill him, and then you and I will escape in the resulting confusion.”

Eliot fell silent again, shifting the new information into its proper place. “Conrad’s already anticipated this,” he said.“Not to mention the bugs in this room are a foregone conclusion, so if he didn’t know you were going to try this before, he knows now. It’s why he brought Nate in as your control.”

It was the only discordant note in an otherwise enjoyable exchange. “Your naivete continues to baffle me,” Damien said. “Think, Eliot – with you at my side Nathan Ford has only one way to exert his so-called control and it is not over me.”

He imagined that he saw a faint bloom of color staining the other man’s cheeks, but otherwise Eliot seemed to roll smoothly in the direction Damien had nudged him. “You can’t really believe I’m going to betray him and help you. Not after everything that’s happened.”

 _So close …_ “You know that your best chance – your _only_ chance is with me,” he said. “And if you don’t already know that I have the means to do this successfully, you are not the man I need at my side anymore.” He paused, making a show of studying Eliot and not liking what he saw. “Perhaps I need to be discussing this with your Mr. Hardison, instead. He and I have a similar interest in foiling Director Conrad’s plans, after all.”

Eliot came up off the bar stool then, his hands clenched into tight fists; the movement so fast it took most of Damien’s control not to flinch. “You and Hardison have _nothing_ to say to each other.”

“Not true,” Moreau countered, idly tracing a finger across the rim of his glass. “We are both family men, he and I.” He waited a beat, and then added, “Alexander never got over the pain of you leaving, you know.”

It was a solid hit; Eliot looked noticeably more uncomfortable than he had before. In his position in Damien’s organization, Eliot had been forced into almost constant contact with the Moreau children. Being the type of man he was, he’d never seemed to find his additional responsibilities distasteful; instead, he’d tried to become a positive influence in their lives. Damien’s second son had been carrying a fairly sizeable amount of hero worship for Eliot when things had gone so horribly wrong.

“Have any overt threats been made?” Eliot asked finally.

Damien took another sip from his brandy. “Is it so impossible to imagine that your CIA might try a strategy like this twice?”

Silence fell between the two men. Damien opened the small refrigerator under the bar and took out a frosted brown bottle. “I don’t know what your tastes are these days,” he said, flipping the top neatly off and passing it across to Eliot, “but I imagine that Director Conrad does.”

The hitter’s answering smile was bitter as he raised the bottle and toasted Damien before taking a long swallow of the pale gold liquid. “I am sorry it has come to this, my friend,” Damien continued after a long moment. “You will have to pick a side, though, and you will need to do it soon because, one way or the other, everything changes tomorrow night.”

Eliot took another pull off his beer, and when he spoke his voice was thick with emotion. “What about Annie? You two looked pretty close back there – are you planning on taking her with you?”

Damien didn’t bother keeping the sneer off his face. “Sophie, or Annie, or whatever her name really is, has been an extremely pleasant companion these past few days, and I have no doubt that she will play her part to perfection tomorrow night – don’t get me wrong.” He paused, savoring the slight widening of Eliot’s eyes, the flaring of his nostrils as he registered that Damien had been playing his teammate with the same fervor she’d pursued him.

“Of course if she _chooses_ to come with me,” he added, “I would welcome her happily. In addition to her more … physical attributes … having her legitimate connection to the Kroys to do with as I need would be useful.” He didn’t miss the slight tensing of muscles in Eliot’s arms and shoulders as his protective instincts were aroused.

“And if she doesn’t?” Eliot asked, his voice soft – almost a growl.

Damien waved away the implied threat. “If she doesn’t, then you will have a decision to make once the fighting starts tomorrow night. Do you expend your efforts returning me to custody? Or do you protect our dear Annie, making sure she isn’t harmed?”

A ghost of a smile hovered around Eliot’s lips as he pushed to his feet. “You talk like the two are mutually exclusive, Damien. Believe me when I say I have the resources to stop you _and_ make sure that Annie isn’t harmed. No choice to be made.”

“Oh, there is still a choice,” Damien countered. “There is always a choice. You hate me for using you, for treating you as a tool, but how is that any different than what your mastermind will do? No matter what you decide, he will either jerk you into line himself, or he will use Annie to do it for him. The man I used to believe was closer to me than any brother would never tolerate such disrespect.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


_I can take the punishment. It’s what I do._ Words he’d spoken to Sophie a lifetime ago came back to him with Damien’s accusation ringing in his ears, and for the first time in years Eliot doubted his decision to leave Damien’s side. His own deep-seated moral qualms aside, there was something so seductive in the idea of just giving in. Guarantee Moreau his freedom in exchange for him leaving the team alone. He knew Nate was already working on a way to get them clear of the CIA – for the small price of what little soul Eliot had left it could potentially be a win all the way around.

“Say I agree to get you out,” he said finally, “I’m destroying any hope I have of returning to work with Nate. Not to mention I’d be lucky if Conrad’s people didn’t throw me in a hole so deep I’d never see the sun again.”

Damien’s grin broadened and turned sly; Eliot felt his gut twist in response. “Are you saying you want to come back?”

It was one of the hardest things he could ever remember saying. “I know it’s been some kind of twisted power play between you and Nate up to this point,” he began, “so I guess I’m asking if any of it was real? Do you want me back? If I help you escape – get you clear, get you your life back, your children – would you take me back?”

He knew as soon as he said it that Moreau was going to want to see him sweat a little bit more before answering – and he wasn’t disappointed. “Do you really expect me to believe that you aren’t going to take all of this straight to your current master?”

Eliot’s expression hardened. “I’m not expecting anything from you. Nate’s been keeping things from me. He knows how I feel about that. Way I figure, he owes me an explanation for shutting me out. I’m either going to get it, or I’m leaving this place tonight and all of you can go to hell. Can you give me an answer, Damien, or not?”

Moreau was quiet this time, and Eliot could sense that he was finally taking the question seriously. “I need some give and take this time. Get me clear of this, and I will at minimum guarantee your freedom from any reprisals by your government. If you are serious that your morality will no longer be a problem and you really do wish to return to my service, we can talk afterwards.”

“And Annie?” Eliot knew he should have taken the victory and run, but he couldn’t stop himself asking the question.

“Do you want her for yourself?” Moreau asked. “I could see my way clear that far.”

It was a tempting prospect … very tempting indeed.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Nate studied the GPS readout on Hardison’s phone and tried to pretend he was fine with the two dots it showed being in such close proximity. “You’re sure there’s nothing in the files to indicate who the real target is?” he asked.

Hardison’s dark eyes were sympathetic, but Nate knew the hacker had already given up everything useful he’d managed to dig out of the computers. Having control of Conrad’s system had sounded a lot more impressive when it was just him and Sterling standing alone in the darkness. “Still six likely candidates – all of them with a vested interest in seeing Moreau or the doc deceased.”

 _Moreau’s going to make a break for it._ Eliot was in play both to protect Moreau and keep him in custody. Sophie was in play to make sure Eliot did _his_ job – Conrad’s master plan was deceptively simple once Hardison had reported Eliot’s concern over the guest list. _He wouldn’t have believed you if I’d warned you in advance._ he thought, knowing that Eliot was going to be upset at the way things had turned out.

One of the red dots he was watching started to move, and Nate exhaled softly – feeling some of the tension in his chest ease. Lowering the hand-set, he passed it back to Hardison. “As soon as he tells us who the target is, I’m going to need you to finish that last drive for Sterling.” He glanced over his shoulder; Parker was curled up in a chair across the room from where they were working. “You remember where to meet him?”

She nodded, and Nate felt a twinge of guilt at how withdrawn she looked. “Don’t bother checking in with me before you make the hand-off,” he reminded her.

“Moreau’s not going to take him away from us,” she said as he headed for the door. It brought Nate up short, because he was half-expecting a question instead of a statement; the thief looking for some kind of reassurance from him.

“No, Parker,” he said as gently as he could. “He won’t. You just need to stick to the plan, and everything will be okay.”

Her quick nod of acknowledgement didn’t reassure him at all.

The full magnitude of his fatigue seemed to wash over him as he left hacker and thief and headed down the hall to his own room. They needed the name of the target, otherwise Eliot and Sophie were going to be in an unacceptable amount of danger at the party. _Eliot can’t protect her or himself if he doesn’t know what he’s protecting them from._

His hand was already reaching out for the light switch in his bedroom when he sensed that he wasn’t alone.

“When were you planning on telling me there was going to be a hit on Damien?”

Even though he’d been expecting Eliot’s presence, Nate felt his heart sink at the sound of his hitter’s voice in the darkness. “I needed time,” he said, forcing himself to turn on the light and continue into his room. “I was hoping to be able to arrange things so you wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

It would have been easier to look at Eliot if the younger man had been drinking. Pain and betrayal were writ large on his face – deliberately shutting him out had cut deeper than anything Nate had ever managed to do to him by accident. “How’d that work out for you?”

Nate leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms over his chest. “In all fairness, I don’t officially know who the potential assassin is beyond the six men you flagged for Conrad. Based on what Hardison was able to discover, I don’t think he plans on telling me.”

“Asfar Shiruyeh,” Eliot supplied. “Damien told me, and yes – Conrad knows. They figure he’ll attack during the party. I retaliate …”

“And Conrad uses Sophie and your loyalty to us to guarantee that Moreau doesn’t escape in the confusion,” Nate finished. “You’re not going to kill him, Eliot.”

Eliot blinked. “Who, Shiruyeh?” Nate didn’t say anything in response, merely raised an eyebrow. “All due respect, Nate,” he continued after a moment, “not your call. Not this time.” He sighed. “Damien has made it quite clear that if I don’t help him escape, he’ll get Hardison to do it. If I don’t kill him now, we’re never going to be free of him.”

 _Never get involved with a murderer._ Sophie’s words from what seemed like a lifetime ago came back to him as he studied his hitter. The problem was, he couldn’t find any flaws in Eliot’s logic. “He almost took Hardison away from us without even trying,” Eliot said gently. “He’s a good man, I’m not saying he’s not, but that’s why Damien _will_ take him.”

“Not if Interpol takes Moreau first.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	9. Don't Take This Wrong

“Annie, hold up!”

Sophie glanced over her shoulder and saw Eliot jogging lightly down the hall to catch up to her. “That must be some message you’re carrying, Mr. Spencer,” she said lightly as soon as he reached her. It was only partially guesswork – she had seen him talking with Damien Moreau in hushed tones as she’d made her excuses and her escape.

He looked confused for a moment, and then shook his head. “No message – can I walk with you for a bit? I know you need to start getting ready …” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

She wanted to tell him no – wanted to grab every minute to herself that she could before they dove into the heart of everything that had brought them to this point – but there was something in his eyes that held her back. “Of course,” she said as easily as she could manage.

“Has Nate talked to you today?” he asked, falling into step with her as she resumed heading towards her bedroom.

Confused, Sophie shook her head. “Not privately no. I’ve been getting tortured in the same briefings Conrad’s been putting the rest of you through. What’s going on?”

Eliot didn’t answer her at first. They were almost at the base of the stairs before he spoke again. “Soph, before I ask you this, please don’t get offended because you’re frighteningly believable when you get going …”

“Eliot …” Reaching out, she laid a hand on his arm. Their eyes met and she said with as much conviction as she could manage, “I’m not planning on running off with Damien Moreau.”

She saw the flash of uncertainty in his expression, saw the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed nervously, and was only partly surprised when he asked her, “What if I am?”

It was a full minute before she could trust herself to speak again. “Walk,” was her first word; grabbing Eliot’s arm, she forcibly turned him towards the stairs. “What happened?” she asked, when they were halfway up the steps to the second floor.

By the time they reached her bedroom, Sophie realized she was looking forward to her shower even more than when she’d left the dining room. She needed time to relax and get back into character, otherwise she was going to confront the lot of them and let them know exactly what she thought of how twisted up this whole mess had become.

In lieu of that … _deal with what’s in front of you._ “You need to trust Nate,” she said gently, cupping Eliot’s cheek in her hand and trying to ignore the tangle of emotions in his expression. “Interpol has the authority to end this on all fronts, and you know Sterling will jump at the chance to put another feather in his cap.”

Taking her hand in his, Eliot turned it palm up and pressed a gentle kiss to her skin. Sophie shivered, suddenly _very_ aware of how close the hitter was standing to her. “As long as he’s alive,” he said softly, “somebody’s going to be trying to get their hands on him. It’s never going to be over, Sophie – not until I end it.”

She felt the chill of metal in the palm of her free hand and looked down to see Eliot passing her the switchblade she’d used on Moreau what seemed like a lifetime go. “I’ll protect you as long as I can,” he said, and she felt the weight of an oath in his words, “but once the assassin makes his move you need to be ready to defend yourself.”

Meeting his eyes, Sophie nodded. “I will, so long as you promise me that when things get crazy you’ll remember who you are and where you belong.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


The car pulled through the heavy iron gates and Damien relaxed back into the soft leather seat, a slight smile teasing his lips. So had it begun. The compound that had been his prison was behind him, the embassy that would be the gateway to his freedom lay ahead, and _out there_ the world waited for his return.

All was exactly as it should be, as it should always have been.

He relaxed further and let the familiarity, the _rightness_ , of it all wash over him. He’d lived this moment a thousand times before, this quiet, restful pause just before his next step in obtaining his latest prize. Money, power, the acquisition of an ally, the destruction of an enemy – all had waited for him at the end of drives such as this, and tonight would be no different. He had only to be patient, to pretend to play his part in Conrad’s little game, to wait for his moment and then to seize it when it came.

There was a power in waiting–

“You look quite pleased with yourself.”

Annie’s voice broke into his thoughts and he turned his head, his smile broadening at the sight of her. She had worn the red dress as he had suggested, and it did, indeed, suit her magnificently. Enzo had also fashioned a matching headscarf that satisfied the requirements for modesty yet also managed on her to look most alluring, drawing attention to her dark eyes while also highlighting her full red lips.

“And why should I not, when I am in such exquisite company?” he asked, reaching for her hand and raising it to his lips, brushing a light kiss across her knuckles. “I will be the envy of every man at the embassy.”

She arched a brow at him, yet he couldn't help but feel the subtle tightening of her fingers about his. “Just remember, Damien, I’m no man’s ‘arm candy,’” she warned. “It’s full partner, or nothing.”

He chuckled. “Of course, my dear! And I look forward eagerly to our partnership. A most agreeable mix of business and pleasure,” he breathed, kissing her hand again. He felt the faint shiver run through her, saw the color rise in her lovely face, and felt an answering heat kindling in himself. She would definitely be a prize worth winning.

“It does have possibilities,” she agreed, her dark eyes gleaming warmly.

“Would you like some champagne?” he asked, gesturing toward the bottle chilling in the silver cooler before them. The embassy would be serving no alcohol tonight, in deference to the religious sensibilities of the Muslim guests, but he had seen no reason that prohibition should extend to his car. Annie nodded with a smile, and he released her hand to lean forward, retrieving two flutes from their protective case. He filled and handed her a glass, then filled one for himself and sat back, raising it with a smile. “To possibilities,” he toasted.

“And partnerships,” she breathed, touching her glass lightly to his.

He watched as she raised her glass to drink, and let his gaze wander slowly over her, allowing himself to imagine – and quite enjoying – the various forms that “partnership” might take. “I asked at dinner last night if you’ve ever been to Tehran. It would be my honor, and my pleasure, to show you the city as one who truly knows it.”

She arched a brow again, this time in seeming surprise. “You know it well?”

He nodded. “I have a villa there. One of the very few the various governments around the world haven’t managed to seize.” He winked. “I am told the Iranians rather enjoyed denying the requests for search and seizure of my assets.”

She laughed lightly as he sipped from his champagne. “One of the benefits of doing business with a rogue state,” she teased. “But I wouldn’t expect them to be so protective of, how shall I put this, a man of such _Western_ influences?”

“Ah.” He sipped again from his champagne, then leaned closer to her. “You see, my dear, the mullahs are many things, but they are not stupid. They understand the language of money as well as any other government. And as more and more avenues of commerce and technology are closed to them in the world, they appreciate, and welcome, those who are not bound by such mundane political conventions.” He smiled broadly and lifted his glass. “Men such as myself.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I have discovered over the years that governments are able to overlook a great many things when their own interests are at stake.” He smirked. “Look at Director Conrad, for example.”

Her lips twisted into something very like a sneer. “Conrad,” she spat, contempt dripping from her voice. “That bastard should be shot! He doesn’t care who he hurts–” She looked sharply at him. “You know he’s simply going to stand by and allow one of the guests to try and kill you–”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not worried, my dear.” He gestured toward the front of the car. “Eliot will be there. My guardian angel, sheltering me beneath his protective wings.” He gazed at the back of the head of the man he knew had to be listening but gave no sign of hearing. _Just like the old days._ “I learned long ago that I need never fear when Eliot is around. His skills are second only to his devotion. He has fended off many a would-be assassin, even to the point of taking bullets meant for me. Conrad’s assassin doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Even after what you tried to do to him in Washington?” she asked pointedly. “You did send men to kill him, you know.”

He shrugged again. “I had to. He had turned on me, was working against me. I could not afford to let his actions go unpunished. It was nothing personal. He understands that.”

That dark brow flicked upward again. “You sent an army after him,” she reminded him. “That sounds _very_ personal.”

He laughed. “My dear, when the target is Eliot Spencer, only an army will do.” He frowned and shook his head slightly, remembering how certain he’d been he’d found a way to punish Eliot for his sins, and how badly he’d underestimated the man. “Looking back, perhaps I should have sent in some air power as well,” he mused only half jokingly. His gaze slid again to where Eliot sat in unresponsive silence. “He is a man of formidable talents,” he sighed. “And he was impossible to replace.”

She stared intensely at him, her eyes searching his. “You’re fond of him,” she said, clearly shocked by the revelation. “In spite of everything, you’re truly fond of him.”

He returned her gaze in surprise. “Shouldn’t I be? We have shared so much– He was never just a ‘hired gun’ to me,” he said, a trace of anger sharpening his voice. “From the beginning, I could see his potential, and I made it my task to cultivate that potential, to show him what he truly could be. I had all the ‘dumb muscle’ around me I needed. With Eliot, I got intelligence, wit, a shrewd tactical sense and even a strategic sense that needed just a bit of encouragement for it to blossom. In return, he gave me unyielding loyalty and absolute honesty, both very rare in my world. I trusted him as I could no other, relied on him as I could no other.” He smiled coldly, almost cruelly. “You will forgive me, but your Mr. Ford doesn’t strike me as a man who fully understands or appreciates what having someone like Eliot at his side truly means. Eliot deserves respect, not simply the dismissive or condescending manner of a master toward his dog. He deserves someone who truly knows how to use his unique gifts.”

“And you do?”

He smiled. “Of course I do. He came to me as raw material, and I shaped him. Taught him. I _made_ Eliot Spencer. And he helped make me. Together, we built an empire. Jupiter and Mars ruling over Rome.” He took her hand again, holding it tightly, and leaned in close. “Come with me,” he whispered intensely, seeing a whole new empire unfolding before him. “Add your gifts to ours.” He searched her lovely face with his gaze, but saw so much more than mere beauty in her. “Imagine what we could all create together. Jupiter, Mars and now Juno, with all the world at our feet!”

She gave a breathless, shaky laugh and tried to pull her hand away. “Damien–”

“Imagine it, Annie,” he pressed, refusing to surrender her hand. “A world where anything, _everything_ you want is at your fingertips! A world made in your image. Wealth, power, _influence_ , all yours for the asking. For the _taking_! And,” he added in a whisper, “everyone you love protected, safely beyond the reach of anyone who might threaten them. Young Mr. Hardison and his family, Parker,” he hesitated, then forced himself on, “and even your Mr. Ford. Come with me, and they need never fear anything or anyone ever again.”

A soft gasp escaped her and a shiver ran through her, but she said nothing.

“We will be at the embassy soon,” he said. “And you will have to decide. Come with me, Annie. Be my Juno.” He dropped his empty flute to the floorboard and lifted his hand to stroke her cheek, then slid it around to the back of her neck and pulled her slowly into him. “Let me show you,” he whispered, “what it is to rule an empire.”

His lips claimed hers, softly at first but with growing hunger and intensity, until she was in his arms and matching his passion with her own. He could taste her answer in her kiss, in the way her body responded to his, and knew he had won.

He was Damien Moreau. And the world would be his again.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“Hardison–”

“Nate, I swear to God, if you ask me if I’ve got ’em one more time, I’m gonna have to hurt you,” the hacker grumbled, never looking up from his computer.

Nate sighed and turned away, knowing he was pushing and telling himself, yet again, that he had to let them do their jobs. Hardison had tapped into both the embassy’s security feed and Conrad’s surveillance measures, and Parker, sent in as one of the wait staff, was planting her supply of bugs and microcams around the ballroom and even on various guests, as directed by Hardison. Sterling and his men were in place, and Nate tried to convince himself not to worry about any threat from that flank. Damien Moreau was a big enough prize, even for Jim Sterling, to guarantee that, _this_ time, the man wouldn’t try to screw them over.

He hoped.

The door opened and Conrad entered the room. “They’re here,” he announced. “One of my men just parked their car.”

Nate snorted softly. CIA agents as valets, Parker and Interpol as wait staff, criminals and terrorists on the guest list … he began to wonder if anyone here was actually who they were supposed to be.

“Show time,” Hardison said softly, bringing Nate and Conrad both immediately to his side. They stared down at Hardison’s computer screen and saw Eliot enter the ballroom, followed by Damien and “Annie.”

“Parker,” Nate said, lifting a hand unconsciously to his earbud, “they’re here. Get the tracker on Moreau. And on Eliot,” he added, ignoring Hardison’s disapproving look.

Conrad smirked. “So you don’t trust Spencer either,” he said mockingly.

Nate ignored him as well. He didn’t for a moment believe that Eliot would turn on them. He was far more worried about how far the man intended to go to save them.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Fifteen minutes into the thing, Eliot remembered just how much and why he hated these affairs. The embassy was hosting the reception for participants in a UNESCO conference on sustainable energy, which explained Dr. Shahriari’s presence. It also explained the presence of at least a hundred and fifty other people, all milling about a room that was lit more for warmth and ambience than actual illumination. While the lighting might create an atmosphere of intimacy among guests, it made it damn hard for him to scan faces and look for weapons.

To make matters worse, Damien – or Anton Andric, as his forged credentials read, a Croatian businessman seeking investment and development opportunities – had abandoned the “low-key” approach and was making his presence known. He’d come here expressly to meet with Shahriari, but he’d also clearly done his homework on some of the other guests and was seeking out those who might prove useful to him. As he and “Annie” moved through the crowd, Eliot ghosted along with them, missing the days when he would have had five or ten men under his command stationed around the room, lending their watchful eyes to his.

But at least he had Parker, all but invisible in her role as catering staff, and Hardison’s voice in his ear.

 _“No sign of Shiruyeh yet,”_ the hacker said. _“Not that I’m sure we’d recognize him if he **was** here. Oddly enough, our friend Director Conrad wasn’t able to come up with anything more current than a ten-year-old grainy satellite photo that makes convenience store video look state-of-the-art.”_

“Great,” Eliot grumbled. “How the hell am I supposed to protect Damien from an assassin I can’t even identify?”

 _“I’ll keep workin’ on it, man,”_ Hardison assured him, _“see what I can come up with. Meantime, keep your eyes open. And heads up, here comes Shahriari.”_

“Yeah, I got him,” he breathed, seeing the Iranian approaching and instinctively stepping closer to Damien. “Now, keep your eyes open. If Shiruyeh’s here, this might flush him out.”

Damien had seen Shahriari, too, and stepped smoothly forward to intercept him, smiling and extending a hand. “Dr. Shahriari,” he greeted warmly. “You may not remember me, but I am Anton Andric. We met a few years ago at a conference in Zagreb.”

Shahriari seemed momentarily confused by his old friend’s change of name, but then understanding dawned in his eyes and he shook Damien’s hand. “Mr. Andric, of course I remember,” he said smoothly in accented but flawless English. “I am delighted you are here and that we might continue that conversation. As I recall, your ideas were most intriguing. I would very much like to hear more.”

“Of course,” Damien agreed. “But first,” he set a hand to the small of Sophie’s back and smiled down at her, “may I present the lovely Annie Kroy, a business associate from London? Annie, this is Dr. Majid Shahriari, one of the world’s leading experts in nuclear power.”

Eliot felt a sharp twinge of anger as he watched Damien with Sophie, as he noted the light but possessive touch of his hand to her back. He’d seen that gesture so often before, knew only too well what claim was being exerted, and prayed Sophie would resist it. Instead, she smiled and stepped in closer to Damien.

“Lovely to meet you, Dr. Shahriari,” she said with Sophie’s dazzling smile and Annie’s accent. “Anton has told me quite a bit about you and your work, though I can’t say I understood any of it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Never really got into science,” she admitted. “My interests have always been much more – how shall I say this? – _practical_. But,” she smiled slyly, “even science needs funding, yeah?”

Interest flared in Shahriari’s dark eyes. “Of course,” he agreed. “Without the practical, the theoretical remains simply … a theory.”

“Yes, well,” Damien said, “Miss Kroy and I are very interested in seeing your work progress from the theoretical to the practical. It’s why we are here. We believe we can help you resolve some of the difficulties you have faced in that particular regard. Miss Kroy brings a rather extensive network of connections to the table, and I believe you already know what resources I can offer.”

Shahriari looked sharply at Damien at that and frowned slightly. “You will forgive me, D– Anton,” he said, stumbling over the unfamiliar name, “but I had heard that you have recently suffered … setbacks?”

Damien chuckled quietly, and Eliot felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “My dear Majid,” he said gently, “you must never believe everything you hear. Yes, I did suffer some losses, but, I assure you, I am far from destitute.” He winked. “Governments can’t seize what they can’t find.”

 _“I ain’t the government, you son of a bitch,”_ Eliot heard Hardison grumbling in his ear, _“and I will find every penny you’ve squirreled away and put it in a trust for Nana and her kids.”_

Damien’s words seemed to reassure Shahriari, and he smiled with obvious relief. “I am truly happy to hear that,” he said. “And if that is the case, then perhaps we should talk. You have always proven a generous partner in the past.”

Damien smiled broadly. “That is why I am here. Let us find a quiet corner and talk.”

Taking Sophie’s hand in his, Damien led the way toward an empty table in the far corner of the room, and Eliot had no choice but to follow. As they sat down and began to talk, he turned away and focused his attention on the room, trying to sort through the crowd of guests to find one lone assassin. “Hardison, anything?” he asked softly, sweeping the room with his gaze. Shiruyeh could be anywhere–

 _“Nothin’ yet, man,”_ the hacker answered. _“If he’s tryin’ to blend in, he’s doin’ a hell of a job.”_

“Yeah, I don’t think he would’ve gotten too far if he’d come dressed as a Taliban commander,” Eliot sighed. “Would’ve helped us, though.”

 _“Wait,”_ Sterling’s voice chimed in, _“I’ve got movement near the center of the room. Tall fellow, pushing past the Indian delegation, wearing loose white trousers, long dark jacket and one of those flat-topped caps–”_

“Of course,” Eliot sighed, fighting the urge to kick himself. “He’s Pashtun.” He turned to look for the man, but too many guests stood in the way, obstructing his view. “Parker, I need more eyes!”

 _“On my way,”_ she said.

Eliot swore under his breath. The room was too dimly lit, too crowded, and his instincts were beginning to shriek in alarm. He _knew_ Shiruyeh was near, could feel him; he just couldn’t _see_ him. He needed to get Sophie and Damien out of here _now_.

He strode to the table where they were in deep conversation with Dr. Shahriari and stopped behind Damien, setting a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. Leaning down between Damien and Sophie, he said in a low, hard voice, “I’m callin’ this. We need to go.”

Damien looked up sharply, irritation pulling his mouth into a scowl. “We are not finished–”

“Yes, you are,” he countered firmly. “Miss Kroy, I need you to find Parker, your escort, and go upstairs to Mr. Ford–”

“She’s not leaving,” Damien countered just as firmly, locking gazes with Eliot. “She came in with me, and she will stay with me. Your job is to keep _both_ of us safe, and I expect you to do that job.”

“Damn it, Damien!” Eliot ground out, his temper rising. “Shiruyeh is _here_ –”

“Then find him and take care of him,” Damien ordered. “Isn’t that what you do?”

“I can go,” Sophie said, starting to rise.

“No–”

“ _Yes!_ ” Eliot hissed. He straightened up and took Sophie’s elbow, then turned just in time to see Parker approaching. “Go with her,” he breathed into Sophie’s ear. “And if you’ve still got that switchblade, now would be a good time to get it out.”

“Damn it, Spencer!” Damien seethed, shooting to his feet and grabbing Eliot’s arm to jerk him around to face him. “You seem to have forgotten who gives the orders here–”

“And you seem to have forgotten that those orders are to _protect_ you–”

 _“Eliot, Parker!”_ Hardison shouted across the comms. _“Shiruyeh’s comin’ up behind you–”_

Eliot shoved Damien down and spun around, thrusting his hand into his jacket and closing it around the gun holstered there. He saw Parker push Sophie out of the way, saw Shiruyeh lunging forward and reaching into his own jacket–

“Die, you Western dog!” Shiruyeh snarled, drawing his gun.

Two shots exploded almost in unison, screams and chaos erupted–

And all at once the ballroom went dark.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	10. Let's Go Steal Us an Eliot!

“Hardison,” Nate said, leaning over the hacker’s shoulder and staring into the computer screen at the man they were all assuming was Shiruyeh, “you’re in the embassy’s system, right?”

“Yeah,” the younger man breathed. “That’s gotta be him–”

“It’s him,” Nate said, knowing it with absolute certainty. That was Shiruyeh, and he was closing in. And Moreau was still arguing with Eliot. “No wonder he hates it when I do that,” he murmured, earning a snort from Hardison. “Okay, he’s gonna need some help, some cover. When I give the word, I want you to kill the lights. Parker’s got Sophie, Eliot’s got Moreau. That should give them all a chance to get out.”

“If Eliot and Shiruyeh don’t shoot each other first,” Hardison amended soberly.

“Yeah,” Nate sighed, straightening. “There’s always that.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Sophie’s breath left her in a rush as she hit the floor under Parker’s weight, but the next moment she sucked it all back in a painful gasp as gunfire erupted. Screams rang out, but she barely had time to register them before the room went dark. Then Parker’s hand was wrapped around her wrist with a tensile strength, the little thief hauling her to her feet, a sudden flare of light shining from the phone she was using as a flashlight.

“We need to get out of here!” the younger woman said urgently, apparently the only one in the room unfazed by the shots. “I’ve got her, Nate, she’s fine,” she reported.

 _Nate …_ Belatedly, Sophie realized that she could no longer hear the others’ voices in her ear. “My earbud–”

“Forget it,” Parker said. “We need–”

“Eliot!” Sophie gasped, pulling out of Parker’s grasp. “Where’s Eliot?” Parker said nothing, and alarms went off in Sophie’s mind. “Parker, _where is Eliot?_ ” she demanded. People were shouting for security, for lights, around them, a few wrestling Shiruyeh to the floor, but she paid them no mind, focusing on Parker, pale and still in the blue-white light of her phone. All at once, Sophie remembered the times she’d seen Eliot and the girl in quiet conversation apart from the rest of them, their faces grim, and fear ripped through her. “What have you done?” she asked harshly, grabbing Parker’s arm. “What’s _he_ done?”

Parker returned her stare for a long moment, then said simply, “He’s fixing this. For all of us.”

And Sophie went cold inside. _No …_ “Take me to him,” she ordered, certain Parker knew where he was going.

“He said my job was to make sure you get away from Moreau,” Parker said stubbornly. “‘Get everyone out, no matter what.’ That’s all that matters–”

“And Eliot?” Sophie asked her pointedly, digging her fingers into her arm. “Did he mention how he planned to get himself out?” Parker stiffened, her eyes widening, and Sophie knew she understood. “He didn’t, did he?” she pressed ruthlessly. “Because there _isn’t_ a plan for that! The bloody fool’s going to sacrifice himself for us!”

Parker’s eyes were huge. “I didn’t– He never told me that,” she whispered.

Sophie softened and reached up, setting a gentle hand to the younger woman’s cheek and smiling sadly. “I know, dear. He wouldn’t. He thought he was doing this to save us. Now we have to save him.”

Parker stared at her a moment longer, then nodded decisively. “Hardison,” she said, “Eliot said there’s a secure garage here with cars kept ready to evacuate personnel in case of emergency. It won’t be on any public schematics, and he said it would probably have a separate security feed. Get us there.” She looked again at Sophie and, in a mark of just how much she had changed over the years, reached out and took her hand, curling her fingers tightly about Sophie’s. “Follow me.”

Sophie smiled and nodded. “Let’s go–”

There was another shout behind them, and suddenly a man was pushing past Parker, knocking the thief off balance. Shiruyeh. Sophie recognized him by the light of Parker’s phone, and her fury rose. Because of him, Eliot had been forced to wear a gun–

And she’d had it. All these men and their machinations, never thinking out the consequences, the _cost_ , to those who would be left behind–

“You bugger!” she spat, lunging forward and grabbing him with one hand, flicking open her knife with the other. Allowing Annie Kroy to take over, she spun him around and slashed her blade across his chest. “I’ve had it with the lot of you!”

He snarled out something in another language and raised his arm to strike, but, before he could, Parker was there, shoving her taser into his chest just above the wicked gash and pulling the trigger. He cried out and convulsed as the electricity shot through him, then dropped to the floor, useless and bleeding.

Parker gazed at Sophie over his inert body and raised her taser, firing it again and giving her shark’s grin. “Let’s go steal an Eliot.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“Hardison, I’ve lost Sophie!” Nate said, tapping his ear as her voice went silent. “What’s happening?”

Hardison tapped furiously at his keys, toggling between screens. “Her bud’s stil active. Must’ve just fallen out in the confusion. “Eliot!” he called. “Eliot, man, you still with us?”

And Nate suddenly realized he couldn’t hear the hitter either, though he was fairly certain that particular earbud hadn’t just “fallen” out. Damn it. “Sterling, what the hell is happening down there?”

 _“My agents would appreciate some light to help them figure that out,”_ the man snapped back.

“Hardison, lights,” he ordered.

“Ford!” Conrad burst into the room, his face a mask of anger. “What the hell are your people doing?”

Nate spun to face him, impaling him with a furious gaze. “Their jobs!” he spat. “Or have you forgotten that all this was your idea?” He stalked over to the director, backing him into a wall, and jabbed a finger hard into his chest. “Maybe if you’d told us about Shiruyeh from the start, given us information we could actually _use_ , we could have stopped this before it started!” Rage twisted through him as he realized all the ways this could have been so much worse. “That bastard could have _killed_ someone down there!” he shouted. “He could have killed one of _my team_ –”

“Nate.”

Hardison’s strangely quiet voice broke into his tirade and he turned around, stiffening at the look in hacker’s eyes. “What?”

Hardison swallowed, then tipped his head toward his screen. “Moreau’s gone. And so is Eliot. And their trackers have gone off line.”

Nate swore softly as his worst fear suddenly sprang to screaming life. Of course the trackers were off line. Eliot would have anticipated that and found a way to neutralize them. Behind him, Conrad snickered.

“I told you Spencer couldn’t be trusted,” he said smugly. “He’s turned on you, like I warned you he would. He’s gone back to his master.”

Nate’s control snapped. He whirled around and slammed a fist into Conrad’s gut, doubling him over. Grabbing the man’s shoulders, he hauled him upright and slammed him into the wall again, then drove his fist across his jaw, knocking him to the floor. Conrad lay there, gasping and groaning, and Nate knelt down beside him, grabbing his jaw in a hard hand and turning his face toward him.

“No, you stupid son of a bitch,” he rasped, his stomach churning sickly. “He’s going to _kill_ him.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Damien followed Eliot through the back hallways of the large embassy, trusting implicitly that he knew where he was going. In the years Eliot had served him, he’d never gone into a building without knowing how he’d get out again, had never _not_ had multiple exit strategies mapped out in his mind. It was only one of the many qualities that had made him so valuable, and so irreplaceable.

And yet Damien was worried. Not for himself, not with Eliot guiding and protecting him, but for Eliot himself. The initial fast pace of their escape was gradually slowing and Eliot’s movements, once quick and sure, now seemed heavier, almost labored, as if he were having to force himself to continue. Even his breathing had changed. Damien had tried a few times to catch up to him, to look at him, but Eliot always pulled ahead with a growled warning, avoiding any scrutiny. Even so, Damien noted that Eliot’s right arm, which he held stubbornly across his body, never moved, and that he had switched his gun to his left hand.

And he could have sworn that, here and there, he saw drops of dark red on the floor … 

At the end of another hallway, Eliot stopped before a heavy metal door, entered a code into an electronic keypad, and exhaled softly as the door slid open to reveal a small service elevator. “In here,” he breathed, sounding infinitely weary.

Damien stepped into the elevator and, as the door slid shut, got his first good look at the man beside him. Eliot sagged back against the wall and closed his eyes, his face pale, his arm still cradled across his body. Through his jacket, Damien could plainly see the dark red stain spreading across his shirt.

“Still stepping between me and bullets, I see,” he remarked, trying to keep the concern from his voice, knowing Eliot wouldn’t appreciate it. “You need a doctor.”

“Later,” Eliot breathed. “When this is over.” He opened his eyes and turned his head to meet Damien’s gaze. “’Course, if you hadn’t wasted time arguin’ with me, I might not have been shot at all.”

Damien winced slightly, feeling an unusual twinge of guilt. “As direct as ever, I see,” he said with a faint, wry smile.

Eliot huffed out a breath and turned his face away again. “I’m tired, I’m pissed, and I got a bullet in me,” he rasped, his eyes sliding closed. “I ain’t in the mood to be nice.” The elevator reached its destination, whatever that was, with a small jolt. “End of the line,” he said as the door slid open.

They stepped out into what seemed to be an underground garage, with several dark – and presumably armored – sedans parked before them. “Of course,” Damien said as understanding dawned. He chuckled quietly, appreciating more than ever Eliot’s ingenuity. “The embassy emergency fleet. We’ll escape in the ambassador’s own car.”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah,” Eliot breathed. He shifted his gun into his right hand and reached into his trouser pocket with his left, pulling out a key. As he pressed a button on the fob, lights on one of the cars blinked on and off and the chirp of a security system sounded. “Figures it’d be one way the hell over there,” he muttered.

Damien laughed again and shook his head. “I have missed you, my friend,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “No one else has your … delightful personality. Still, perhaps we should speed this up. You need a doctor, and I am eager to escape Director Conrad’s clutches.”

“Yeah, about that,” Eliot sighed. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, as if gathering his strength. He remained that way for several long moments, then raised his head and turned back around–

And Damien’s heart nearly stopped when he saw the gun, once more in Eliot’s left hand, lift and point with a frightful steadiness straight at him.

“Like I said,” Eliot rasped, blue eyes dark and unreadable, “this is the end of the line.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


“Do I want to know how you and Eliot acquired these things?” Sophie asked as Parker entered the code that opened the elevator door. The thief had gotten them through every door they’d encountered, whether by code or key, and Sophie tried not to wonder whether what they were doing actually constituted treason.

Parker frowned as the stepped into the small elevator. “We stole them, duh.”

Sophie closed her eyes and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. Someone really needed to teach Parker the concept of “too much information.”

The thief startled her by speaking again. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I probably should have told you and Nate, or at least Hardison, what Eliot was planning. But he said it had to be this way, that this was the only way it would ever end. The only way we’d ever be safe.” She fixed haunted eyes on Sophie. “Moreau scares him like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” she said worriedly. “It’s like the guy just twists something in his brain!”

“I know,” Sophie sighed, wondering why she and Nate hadn’t paid more attention in the beginning to what now seemed so blindingly obvious. “But killing Moreau isn’t the answer, you have to know that. _He_ has to know that.”

“I don’t think he does,” Parker said softly, sadly.

“Yes, well,” Sophie said, a note of steel creeping into her voice, “then I suppose I shall have to convince him.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Damien stiffened, the smile draining from his face, his hazel eyes widening in shock as he stared at the gun. “What the hell are you doing?”

Eliot rolled his eyes at the stupid question, certain the gun in his hand made his intentions fairly obvious. To be fair, this was a last-minute adjustment to his plan. He’d originally intended to whisk Damien away in one of the cars and kill him somewhere else, hoping to spare his team from any blowback by making it look like he’d betrayed them by rejoining his “former master,” but Shiruyeh’s bullet had changed things. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch and his right arm was all but useless, and the effects of blood-loss were already setting in. If he was going to do this, it had to be here and now.

“What I should’ve done back in San Lorenzo,” he said. “Would’ve saved everybody a lotta trouble. But better late than never, right?”

Damien stared at him as if he still didn’t understand, or just couldn’t believe it. “Are you out of your mind?” he asked sharply, angrily. “You can’t kill me! You _need_ me! Conrad will never let you and your people go if you do this–”

“Conrad’s gonna have enough trouble explainin’ why he was usin’ a bunch of criminals, including one he busted out of prison in another country, to sell nuclear materials to Iran,” Eliot countered. “Treason kinda trumps me shootin’ you.”

“This is ridiculous!” Damien snapped, taking a step forward but stopping abruptly when Eliot raised the gun slightly. “I had nothing to do with any of this! I am as much a pawn as you–”

“Which is exactly why I _have_ to do this!” Eliot spat. “Goddamn it, Damien, you’re too valuable, too _useful_ , to just leave sittin’ in a prison cell. How many more times is somebody gonna decide they need Damien fucking Moreau to help further their interests? And how many more times is my team gonna be dragged into shit like this because of you? Sooner or later, that’s gonna backfire on us. Sooner or later, one of is gonna get hurt – or worse – because of you!”

Damien blew out a sharp, impatient breath. “That’s absurd–”

“Is it? Tell that to Hardison, to his Nana! All she does is take in kids nobody else wants, and they set her up to take the fall as a _terrorist_! Just to get _us_ to help them control _you_! The Italian threatened to kill us and throw Nate into prison! Who’s next? MI6, Mossad, Mexico? I know you’ve got ties to the cartels! How about Russia, China, North Korea? Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if we got a visit from the fucking Mounties! As long as you’re alive, somebody’s gonna want to get their hands on you, and everybody seems to want to use my team to do it.” He shrugged, and immediately wished he hadn’t. “So that just leaves one solution.”

Damien shook his head slowly, shock and horror on his face. “You can’t do this,” he said again. “You _won’t_ do this!”

Eliot laughed aloud in disbelief at the sheer ridiculousness of those words. “Of course, I will! I used to do it for you _all the fucking time!_ How many people have I put in the ground because of you? _For_ you? _I was your fucking angel of death!_ ” he shouted as fury ripped through him. “It’s why you had me on the payroll! When I showed up, people _died_!”

“That was business,” Damien said dismissively. “They were liabilities–”

“And what the hell are you?” he snarled. “Those people are my _family_! They are all I have left in the world. They are _everything_ to me! And I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe!”

Damien was silent for long moments, and Eliot could see the calculations taking place behind the man’s eyes. Then he smiled, one of his rare, genuine smiles, and Eliot’s blood ran cold. “Then come with me,” he invited softly, seductively, his voice warm. “Take your place at my side again, and protect them from there. You know the power we held once, the influence we wielded. We could take that back, and then increase it to such a degree that no one, _no one_ , would ever dare touch your friends!”

Eliot gasped softly and shuddered as that voice swept through him with a familiar intensity, demanding a response from him. And for a moment, he was tempted. They had been all but untouchable once, could be so again. And he could protect the others in ways he couldn’t now. All he had to do was go back to Damien–

And deliver his soul once more into the devil’s hands.

“I can’t,” he whispered, knowing the price was too high, even for them. “I made that mistake once, I can’t do it again. “

“Not even to protect your family?” Damien wheedled. “Eliot, _think_! Think of what you could do, what you could be! You don’t want to kill any more?” He shrugged. “Fine. I will have others for that. You can be my personal head of security. Look after me, after my family, and train others to do the dirty work for you.” He smiled again. “Alexander would be so happy to have you back! You are his idol, you know. Jules, of course, worships you, too, and as my heir he could benefit from your unique ‘tutelage.’ Then there is Adrijana–” His eyes shone at the mention of his daughter, whom Eliot remembered as a dark-haired, dark-eyed dimpled child full of sweetness and mischief. “She is almost nine now, and will be even more beautiful than her mother.” He winked and grinned. “You could help me keep all the young men she will attract in line–”

“Stop it!” Eliot said harshly. It all sounded so cozy, so innocent – home and hearth, domestic bliss – but he knew better. He’d been in that home, knew the orders that were given from that hearth.

“Come back to us,” Damien urged quietly. “Be part of my family again. What better way to protect _your_ family?”

“I said _stop_ it!” he snarled. “I’ve been down that road before, remember? I let you bend and twist and break me until I was somethin’ I didn’t even recognize.” He shook his head slowly and stared at the man who’d given him so much, been so much to him … and taken so much from him. “I can’t let you do it again. Not even for them.”

“Why not ask them first?” Damien asked reasonably. He swept his gaze over Eliot, winced as he saw the blood soaking into his shirt and shook his head slowly. “You’re hurt, you need a doctor,” he said quietly. “We don’t have to decide anything now. Let’s just get you some help, and we can talk about all of this later, when you are stronger and thinking more clearly.”

The gun wavered in his hand for a moment as he heard the concern, the _genuine_ concern, in Damien’s voice, saw the worry in his eyes. _You’re fond of him._ Sophie’s words from the car, words he’d tried not to hear. _Shouldn’t I be?_ Words he’d tried not to believe–

“No,” he whispered, tightening his hold once more on the gun and pushing everything that had ever been between him and Damien, everything he’d ever let himself feel for this man, aside. “I can’t let you anywhere near them. I know you, Damien, I know how you get your hooks into people. Hell, you still got ’em in me,” he admitted. “But I can’t let you have them. I just can’t.”

Anger swept across Damien’s face, washing the worry from it. “So you will kill me instead!” he snapped, his hazel eyes flashing. “Shoot me down like a dog in the street.” He snorted sharply. “You couldn’t bear to kill for me any longer, but you will for them, is that right? How does that even make sense?”

“It doesn’t,” Eliot sighed, tired to his soul and hurting more with each passing moment. He just wanted to get this done, wanted just to give in to the pain, the weakness, and sleep for a hundred years. “I just know that this is the way it has to be. You’re too dangerous, and they’re too important to me. It’s not right. None of this is right. And, no, it doesn’t make sense. But somebody’s gotta put a stop a stop to it, and,” he exhaled heavily as a wave of resignation swept through him, “I seem to be the one holding the fucking gun. Again.”

“Eliot, you– you can’t be serious!” Damien protested, panic starting to creep in as he finally recognized the inevitability of his fate. It was fitting, Eliot thought idly, that the man who had dispatched him to deliver this sentence to so many others now knew how it felt to be on the wrong side of it. “We can work something out–”

“No,” he sighed, “we really can’t. And like you said, I need a doctor, so it’s time to end this once and for all.” He lifted the gun slightly for a head shot, supposing he owed the man that mercy at least. For old times’ sake. “Goodbye, Damien.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


_This must be what going mad feels like._ The one portion of Nate’s brain that hadn’t gone completely numb with terror calmly noted that this was the second time he’d used that particular phrase in recent memory, and perhaps he should remember to ask Hardison where the quote was from?

Definitely going mad.

“Hardison,” he said finally, blinking in confusion at how _normal_ his voice sounded, “get me something I can work with. Parker’s right – he won’t want to do this where it’ll have a chance of blowing back on us.”

“Nate …” the hacker began, and without looking away from the monitor screens, Nate gripped the younger man’s shoulder – killing the question he knew was about to be asked before it could be given voice and a chance to take root.

“I am not wrong about this,” he said fiercely. “I know how he thinks and the day somebody like Conrad can predict his movements better than I can is the day I hang this all up for good.” He exhaled softly, drawing much-needed strength and reassurance from the words. “Now _find me something I can work with._ You know how cranky I get when we’re flying blind.”

As jokes went, it was almost unforgivably lame but Nate’s pulse was loud and heavy in his ears now, beating against the white noise of his fear until it began to crack. _We can stop him. We’re the only ones who can._ “There!” he exclaimed, pointing out what he’d noticed almost before he realized he’d seen anything at all.

“Good eye,” Hardison confirmed. A handful of keystrokes later the muted greys and blues of a security feed filled their vision. “Parker, got him. The garage is on the west end of the south side of the embassy; there’s tunnel access about three hundred feet east of where you and Sophie are.”

“Kill the doors,” Nate said quietly – unable to drag his attention away from the two figures on the left side of the screen, half-hidden by the fleet of cars. “Nothing leaves that garage until I say so.” He touched his ear reflexively. “Sterling, I need you.”

 _“Little busy right now.”_ His old friend’s voice said that he was clearly distracted; Nate smiled, and it wasn’t kind.

“Yeah, letting your target get away. Listen up.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Blood loss and his injuries made him slow. Too slow in the end – Eliot had only half squeezed down on the trigger when a familiar voice reached his ears. “Put it down, Spencer!”

 _Sterling._ It took a herculean effort, but in the end he managed to keep from finishing the shot. “Walk away, Sterling!” he yelled. His wound had begun to throb, setting up a nauseating counterpoint to his heartbeat. “This has nothing to do with you!”

“Beg to differ,” the Interpol agent countered. Eliot saw him slowly cross-stepping into position, his gun also positioned for a head shot – trained squarely on Eliot. “That man you have there is my payment for getting you all out of this mess.”

He’d forgotten in all the chaos. Sterling might have helped Nate out of respect for what they’d once meant to each other. He would have helped Hardison’s Nana because it was the right thing to do, and it would have made him look the hero. Making sure the rest of the team walked away clean required something bigger. Nate had already offered him Damien.

“That hand you feel, jerking your leash right now,” Damien said, his voice suddenly poisonous, “it isn’t mine. You know what I’m willing to do for you. I have already given you my word no harm will come to your little band of misfits and you know I can keep my word. Kill me, and the only thing that will happen is you die for your new master.”

“Shut up!” Eliot snapped. He refocused his aim, trying to stop the trembling in his arm by sheer force of will. “Nothing either of you can say is going to change this.” He felt Sterling take another step closer, heard more people entering the garage.

“If you don’t lower that gun right now I’m going to shoot you, how about that?”

The world went calm and slow around him, as Eliot picked up Sterling’s gauntlet one final time. Against all odds, he even managed to smile. “Go ahead,” he answered his long-time nemesis. “Go ahead if you think you’re fast enough.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


They reached the garage just in time to hear Eliot answer Sterling’s challenge; Sophie was barely fast enough to grab Parker’s shoulder and keep her from running into the middle of the scene.

Eliot was badly hurt – he’d been shot in the confusion, just like they’d feared. Even at a distance Sophie could tell there was far more blood then there should have been, and sweat was rolling off him as he struggled to hold his aim. Moreau’s face was angled away from them, but Sophie felt confident that his mask of studied arrogance would have finally slipped under the circumstances.

“I thought you cared about him.” Sophie flinched as Sterling spoke again. “Did you even stop to think about what this is going to do to him?”

 _Nate …_ she realized belatedly. _He’s talking about Nate._ She suspected that Eliot had made the same assumption she had – even though he never took his eye off his target, his confusion was writ large on his handsome face.

“I’m doing this _for_ him,” he countered, and Sophie felt her chest tighten at the pain in his voice. “For all of them. As long as Damien lives, this will never be over.”

It had been his mantra almost since the beginning. Sophie heard a small hitch in Parker’s breathing; proof if she’d needed it that this was how he had won the thief to his cause. _You can’t,_ she thought, wanting to call out to him, but terrified to disrupt whatever fragile balance Sterling had managed to bring to the situation.

“Have you ever tried to picture what he was like after his boy died?” The question, seemingly out of left field, drew Sophie’s focus entirely to the Interpol agent. “I’m sure you have – everybody did. The thing is, I don’t have to picture it.” The grifter’s eyes widened in horror as she realized Sterling’s voice was unexpectedly choked with emotion. “I was _there_. I was the one who finally convinced him to leave the gravesite hours after everyone else had gone home. Not Maggie, not his mother … me.”

“It’s not the same!” Eliot retorted. _He’s losing it,_ Sophie realized. One way or the other this thing was moments from ending – the hitter was going to have to take the shot or risk having his decision made for him.

“It is _exactly_ the same!” Sterling shouted, his face flushing a deep, angry red. “I’m going to shoot you because it’s my duty to stop you – and, let’s face it, you’re too stubborn to let this go – and it’s going to destroy him. If you don’t believe anything else I’ve ever told you believe that. _Losing you will destroy him._ ”

Sophie only realized she was holding her breath when her lungs forced her to inhale. Eliot’s hand was starting to tremble, whether from emotion or the effects of his wounds she couldn’t tell. His focus never wavered though – now as always, Damien Moreau was the center of his world. “Sophie will help him,” he said at last, his voice cracking under the strain. “She can see him through his grief.”

No matter what anyone said about her talent – or lack thereof – Sophie Devereaux was more than enough of an actress to recognize her cue. “Who will see me through mine?” she asked, stepping forward into the fray.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


He hadn’t realized she was there – how had he not realized she was there? “Walk away Sophie!” he called, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. “I’m beggin’ you, darlin’, just this once turn around and walk away.”

She stepped into his view then, a vision even with her veil missing and her careful hairdo in ruins. “If you think I’m going to make it easy for you to commit murder after everything we’ve been through together, then you don’t know me at all.”

 _”I don’t associate with murderers.”_ He hadn’t heard her say the words himself, but they’d reached a point in their lives where there was no such thing as a long term secret between them. _So be it,_ he thought, even though his aim was already dropping. “Sophie, I _have_ to do this. You know I do, and you know _why_.” Tears briefly blurred his vision; of all of them, he suspected he would miss this woman the most.

“I don’t know anything of the sort,” she spat, visibly angry with him now. “All I know is that this is not who you are, a man who takes the easy way out.”

Eliot suspected he could have resisted her pleas and tears, but Sophie had always insisted on seeing the best in him even when he couldn’t see it in himself, and her obvious scathing disappointment cut deep. Besides … “You think this is the easy way out?”

She was close to them now – close enough that Moreau could have made a grab for her and Eliot was no longer sure he could have stopped him. If she realized the potential danger, however, she gave no sign of it. “I think dying for something is always the easy way out. If you want to impress me Eliot, then _live_.”

And with that, he was beaten. It was over. Sterling stepped in on his side and closed his hand over the gun; Eliot let him take it without a fight. “For whatever it’s worth,” the Interpol agent said softly as their eyes met, “I give you my word he is never going to see the light of day again.”

It felt strange trusting Sterling – he would later swear it had been the blood loss driving him, but he nodded at the man; acknowledging and accepting his promise the only way he could.

“I had such hopes, such plans for us.” Adrenaline jolted Eliot upright as he saw Damien move out at the edge of his vision. Sterling immediately fell back, aiming at Moreau this time, but Damien had only grabbed Sophie’s arm. “You could have grifted a dozen lifetimes,” he said, looking directly at her this time, “and never come close to the money and power I could have laid at your feet with Eliot at my back.”

Sophie’s gaze as she looked him over one final time was dismissive bordering on contemptuous. "You're adorable." Jerking free, she continued on past him – brushing aside one of the most powerful men in the world as if he was no more than the dust on her outrageously expensive shoes.

Eliot had never been more in love with her in his life.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  



	11. Believing In Happy Endings

If he hadn’t already owed Sterling more than he would be able to repay in several lifetimes, Nate would have been tempted to punch his old partner right in the face. The order to take Director Conrad into custody hadn’t been given until Damien Moreau was secure, which meant that he and Hardison had been effectively trapped in the control room watching helplessly as everything threatened to spiral out of control.

 _”I was the one who finally convinced him to leave the gravesite hours after everyone else had gone home. Not Maggie, not his mother … me.”_ It was the truth, and Nate realized with a guilty start that he’d never given Sterling credit for that moment of strength and caring.

_“Losing you will destroy him.”_

The worst part was knowing that Sterling’s words were for him as much as for Eliot – warning him off from interfering and demanding Nate’s trust that Sterling would see this through to a successful conclusion. Which he could have happily done except for the fact that he believed Sterling when he threatened to shoot Eliot and, while he suspected Eliot did too, he wasn’t sure Eliot _cared_.

That had always been the double-edged sword about working with somebody like Jim Sterling. Every emotional connection in his life came second to the rules and laws that gave him his structure.

Damien Moreau was being put in handcuffs on Hardison’s monitor when Interpol agents finally swarmed into the room. “You can’t do this!” Conrad sputtered as one of the black-clad men hauled him to his feet. “You don’t have the authority!”

Nate experienced his first moment of genuine satisfaction in days as the CIA director was spun face first into the wall and handcuffed. “Actually, Director,” he said, “you’re the one without authority here.”

“If you or any of your IMF team are caught or captured,” Hardison crowed, “the Secretary will disavow all knowledge …” It was the obvious joke, but Nate didn’t have the heart to stop him from making it. As far as he was concerned, the hacker was entitled to a lifetime of bad jokes after slipping free of this particular net.

Reality didn’t catch up with them until they’d seen Conrad secured and taken away, and Nate had made a move to leave the control room. “I’m sorry sir,” the agent who stepped smartly into his path said, “but I’ll need to get permission from Agent Sterling for you to leave the room.”

Nate was well into reconsidering every scrap of good will he’d felt for his old friend and partner by the time Sterling answered the attempts to raise him and gave permission for Nate and Hardison to be “escorted” to where an ambulance had arrived to transport Eliot to the hospital.

“Can you say ‘international incident’?” Hardison muttered as they were led downstairs and through the clusters of disheveled and confused diplomats and angry power brokers. Of Dr. Shahriari there was no sign; Nate briefly wondered if the man had been canny enough to make his escape, or if he was being held somewhere for questioning regarding his connection to the Croatian businessman Anton Andric and international arms dealer Damien Moreau.

“Nate!” The agent watching over them flinched as though expecting an attack, but even if Sterling hadn’t been nearby to give his approval, Nate suspected the man would have needed more than his weapons to stop Sophie. He had half a heartbeat to register her approach before she was in his arms.

“He’s all right,” she said breathlessly, and Nate could feel her tears on his skin. “Oh God Nate – he’s lost so much blood, but they’re sure he’s going to be okay.”

Parker was a little ways off, standing near the gurney while medics finished whatever it was they were doing before Eliot would be loaded into the waiting ambulance. Hardison brushed by Nate and Sophie, going to be near the ones that gave him the most strength; the two he called home. Shifting his grip on the woman in his arms, Nate realized she was shaking.

“You were brilliant,” he told her softly, turning his face into her, making this moment theirs. “You saved him – pulled him back.”

“I almost couldn’t.” And with that he heard her break, felt her sobs as if they’d come from his own chest. “Oh Nate …”

Pulling back slightly, he cupped her tear-stained face between his palms and forced her to meet his eyes. “No. No almost. You did it. That’s all that’s ever going to matter.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Telaryn/media/11954234341082748434zeimusu_Swash_o.png.html)  


Eliot was clearly drugged to the gills, strapped in place, with an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. It was the kind of opportunity Hardison knew he would never have again, and yet he couldn’t think past the overwhelming relief at seeing his friend alive. “You two,” he began, his vision blurring with tears as he looked up to include Parker in what he was about to say. “You two don’t _ever_ do something like that to me again, okay?”

“We thought it was the only way …” Parker began. Hardison groped for her hand across Eliot’s chest and squeezed it.

“You don’t con your crew,” he said fiercely. “I have died a million times in just the last hour watching this shit unfold and …” His voice broke, and he felt his own tears sliding down his cheeks at last. “ … and I will never be able to repay either of you for what you’ve done.”

Eliot weakly slid his hand over their joined ones. His skin was cold, but his eyes when Hardison looked into them were full of emotion.

“Is Nana going to be okay?” Parker asked. “I know Sterling arrested Conrad like Nate wanted, but does that get her off the hook?”

Hardison nodded. “I’m going to call her when it gets to be a more reasonable time in the States just to make sure, but that was the deal. Sterling gets Moreau, and he uses his contacts to get us and Nana free of the Agency.” There was a tiny part of his brain that choked on the idea of trusting Sterling to hold up his end of any deal, but the hacker refused to let it take hold.

Not tonight, at any rate. Tonight he needed more than anything to be with his family, and to believe in happy endings.


	12. Chapter 12

EPILOGUE

The first thing he saw when he finally regained consciousness was Nate in a chair at his bedside, head bowed, pen moving silently across the page as he methodically filled in the squares of a Sudoku puzzle. It was such a surreal image that Eliot wondered for a moment if he’d actually died.

That idea was quickly put to rest as he tried to speak and what he’d intended as a question came out sounding more like the final desperate croaks of a dying bullfrog. Nate reacted to the sound like he’d been shot; setting aside his puzzle and getting to his feet. “Give me a second,” he said, pouring out a cup of water and bending the straw at the right angle.

It had mercifully been ages since the last time Eliot had been subjected to the flat, over-conditioned taste of hospital water, but the liquid was so soothing against his tortured throat he couldn’t find it in his heart to be anything but grateful.

Nate eased the straw away after half a dozen swallows. “Not too much,” he cautioned. “Not at first. We don’t know how your system is going to react.”

He was so earnest Eliot laughed weakly. “It doesn’t bother me. Promise.” After a moment Nate raised the glass in invitation and he nodded.

Once he’d had his fill, Nate set the cup on the bedside table and leaned lightly on the bedrail. “I seem to recall telling you that killing Moreau was off the table.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Several times.”

“And I told you it wasn’t your call.” Eliot blinked, the reality of the moment finally catching up with him. “What are you doing here, Nate?”

The mastermind grinned slyly, understanding immediately what Eliot wasn’t asking. “Where else would I be under the circumstances?” After a moment in which Eliot only barely resisted rolling his eyes, Nate sobered. “Sterling was right, you know. My own issues aside, I wasn’t going anywhere until I knew you were okay.” He swallowed. “And until we had a chance to talk about everything. Eliot, if I could have seen any other way to do this, I swear …”

Eliot shook his head, reaching out to cover Nate’s hand with his own. “Nate, don’t. We both ended up in a pretty dark place on this one – I’m as much to blame as you are.” He paused. “What happened with Hardison’s Nana and her kids?” Best for all concerned to shift the conversation to a safer topic and fast.

Nate gave him a look that communicated more clearly than words that he knew what Eliot was trying to do. Nevertheless he said, “They’re safe for now. Sterling was as good as his word, and once Interpol got involved Homeland Security decided to step up and do their job. Add in a couple of tips to the Chicago news media, and Mrs. Bushnell’s file has been purged of all charges.” He chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she receives an apology or three from some higher ups in the Illinois state government. It’s turning into quite the public relations nightmare. Oh, and I’m pretty sure Hardison is committed to taking Parker to Chicago for Thanksgiving.”

Eliot felt a large part of the tension he’d been carrying ease almost immediately. They’d done it. It hadn’t been neatly or easily done, but they’d gotten the innocents out of the line of fire for now. He could handle however bad the fallout got.

Nate was still obviously struggling with their earlier conversation. “You need to know,” he said finally, “that I value your loyalty more than anything else in my life. I know I don’t act like it, well, hardly ever … but the idea that you see something in me worth following …” He shrugged, and something in Eliot’s chest tightened painfully at the sight of his boss – his friend – at a total loss for words.

“I don’t want you killing for me,” he went on after a long moment, before Eliot could even begin figuring out what he needed to say. “Or any of us. I remember Washington – I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to make that choice again.”

 _It’s my choice to make,_ Eliot thought stubbornly. Out loud, though, all he said was, “That’s the difference between you and Moreau, Nate. That’s always going to be the difference.”

Overcome with emotion, Nate gripped Eliot’s hand – meeting his eyes without flinching. “You’ve always been a better man than what Moreau saw in you. I need you to understand that.”

Eliot struggled for a long moment, trying to find the words to tell Nate how he felt, what was in his heart. He loved Nate for what he was saying, but there was still a very large part of him that knew with unshakeable faith that the mastermind … his leader … his _friend_ … 

… was wrong.


End file.
